


Broken Soul

by beautifulboysincars (AlexMeg)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abused Sam Winchester, Affectionate Dean Winchester, Aftermath of Torture, Angry Dean Winchester, Brain Damage, Broken Sam Winchester, Brotherly Affection, Caring Dean Winchester, Crying Sam Winchester, Damaged Sam, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Sam Winchester, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Overprotective Dean Winchester, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Sweet Dean Winchester, Torture, Tortured Sam Winchester, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexMeg/pseuds/beautifulboysincars
Summary: The brothers have been separated for six months, all the while Dean has been unaware that in all those months, his little brother had been kidnapped by some hunters. When he finds that out, he goes for his rescue.But when he finds him, he doesn't like what the months of torture and abuse have done to him.Set 5.04, The End.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an oldie, originally published on Fanfic in 2012 and completed in 2016.
> 
> Fanfiction: https: // www . fanfiction . net /s/8182175/1/Broken-Soul
> 
> The beginning is somewhat overdramatic, but bear with me. I hope you will enjoy the story!

He never stopped hoping, even after Dean told him that they were better off apart, that they were weaker together. He spent hours, staring at his phone, hoping for Dean to call him, hoping Dean would change his mind, call him to meet up at a random location and reunite again, become hunting partners again.

  
Become brothers again.

_"Look, Sam - it doesn't matter - whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh - the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good." Dean said._

_"Dean, it does not have to be like this. We can fight it." Sam replied desperately.  
_

_"Yeah, you're right. We can. But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us - love, family, whatever it is - They are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. We're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways."_

He knew that Dean didn't want anything to do with him now. But they were still brothers, they were still family. Maybe Dean wouldn't take him back, but he'd still call him every once in a while, right? He doesn't hate him that much.

Even though Dean had made it clear and final, he still hoped someday, any day, whether it took weeks, months or even  _years_ , Dean would take him back, let him back in. But maybe, after everything that he's done, after his betrayal, maybe it was just too good to be true. Is that why Dean didn't want him back? He thought they were over that.

 _Guess I was kinda stupid to think that_. He thought to himself.

He was stressed out, being Lucifer's vessel wasn't an honor at all. Every night, the devil himself would visit him in his dreams, try to torture him or his loved one's into making him say yes. He'd taunt him about how Dean didn't want him anymore, ask him that ' _What are you fighting for_?'.

Well, that was a question he needed to think about.

And then the hunters, who were hot on his trail, trying to seek revenge for their friend's death by trying to force demon blood down his throat and make him exorcise the demon that murdered their best friend.

But the one thing that worried him the most, was Dean not taking him back.

He bit his lower lip as he felt tears blurring his vision and held his head in his hands. He sighed deeply as memories flashed through his mind like a movie. Things used to be so simple, when clowns were the scariest things to him. When simple and easy hunts like wendigos used to be so hard. When he used to be the most important person in Dean's life. Now, it's like he's been replaced by the angel of the lord, Castiel.

Nobody wants him, except the devil. Not angels, not demons, not even Dean.

Now he was truly considering the question. What is he fighting for anyway?

Suddenly, his thoughts were cut off by a noise, that sounded like someone picking a lock. He stood up cautiously as he stared at his door lock. His hunter instincts that haven't been used for weeks, finally kicking in. He swallowed as he looked at his pillow. He left all his weapons to Dean, except a .45 that was under his pillow right now.

 _Maybe, you should just let_   _them take you_. A voice in the back of his mind said. He shook the thought off his head.

Before he could react, the door busted open. There appeared four people who were no doubt hunters. Two of them he recognised as Tim and Reggie from the bar, the other two, not at all. The two jumped on him, grabbing hold of his arms. He struggled to get out of their grasp but it was no use, they were stronger than him. And a stinging sensation in his neck, and then blackness immediately took over him.

"Told you we'd come back." Tim said lowly.

 

**...**

 

Sam's eyes fluttered open. His head and neck throbbed mercilessly. He turned his head at the room and his eyes furrowed in confusion as he jerked up. It all hit him at once, the hunters had kidnapped him.

 _Shit_. He thought to himself.

His eyes drifted to the chains cuffing him to the cot.

"So, you're finally awake, Sammy." He heard a familiar voice and looked over at the door to find Tim, Reggie and a few other hunters. He looked around, the room slightly reminded him of Bobby's panic room, with the cot and the metal door and all. He looked back at Tim and glared angrily. He struggled with the chains.

"That wouldn't do a jack, Sammy." Tim said smugly.

"It's Sam." Sam replied as he struggled furiously with the chains. He finally stopped as he realized that it really isn't working at all. He breathed a sigh of frustration. "So, what are you going to do with me now?" Sam asked half-heartedly.

"Well, I'll make you a little deal. You do as I say, drink some demon juice, come with us and gank the demon that killed our best friend, and we'll let you go. If you say no...well, we won't let you go." Tim smiled.

"No." Sam answered stoically. "I'll never do it."

An expression of anger flashed through his face and went away quickly as it came, replaced with a smug smirk. "Well then.." He sighed and looked at one of the hunters, who handed him a whip.

Sam swallowed at the fierce-looking weapon and knew he's not going to like what's coming next. He started struggling with the chains frantically.

He felt his back split open and gasped in agony as he fell on his side, curling up against the intense pain. The whip bit into his flesh again as it slashed across his waist. The burning pain was merciless and unforgiving and he bit his lip hard to keep himself from screaming and satisfy them with his weakness and with how much in pain he was. But a few salty tears of agony managed to slip from his closed eyes somehow, trailing down his cheek.

Another slash across his back that made him curl tighter, making him smaller. Another slash, and another, and another, and again.

He could barely hear them laugh at his suffering. All he could focus on was the pain that kept coming.

He breathed heavily through the merciless burning pain that took over his body. He opened his eyes in slits and lifted his head slightly to look at what they were doing, watching helplessly as Tim switched his tool to a metal pipe.

Tim swung the hard silver cylinder at his ribs ruthlessly, hard enough to bruise them, but thankfully, not break them. But it was still painful like hell as he cried out in pain. Another blow flew to his gut and he let out a small, embarrasing whimper that sent all his torturers laughing brutally.

" _Deean_..." He whimpered out. Although he knew Dean wasn't here, he still called. He knew Dean isn't going to come and rescue his sorry ass like he used to, because after all that he did, Dean probably hates him. But his name gave him a strange sense of comfort.

"Dean's not here." Tim smiled wickedly and slowly bent down. "And he isn't going to come and save you...because he's a hunter, and you're a monster, Sam." He spat.

Sam shook his head frantically as tears filled his eyes. "N-no, m'not, m'clean."

Tim laughed. "Yeah right." He said as he straightened and raised the metal pipe, aiming for his next blow.

He also knew that the torture wasn't ending now...

It was just beginning.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Dean paced back and forth, his cellphone in his hand. He had been calling Sam for about a half an hour. It's not like him to be ignoring his calls, so he knew that couldn't be possible. He's worried and all the horror shows going inside his head is really not helping. What if a supernatural creature had kidnapped him? Or maybe he's...not gonna go there. And Bobby just warned him that some hunters know about Sam's demon blood addiction and starting the apocalypse.

It's been about twenty two hours since he came back from the time travel to five years forward and he just didn't wanna believe that Sam had said yes to Lucifer, but he did. Who could blame the kid? He never realised that until now. Sam had been alone. All this time, he needed Dean and he turned him down. He actually thought that they were better off apart, but he was wrong. They kept each other human.

They were brothers - family. And they might use that against them but, they were still stronger together... _no matter what_.

And that's why he needs to have him back. But he's not even answering his phone calls and he resists the urge to throw his cellphone across the room as he closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. Maybe he's out somewhere, in a bar, maybe and...he just forgot to take his phone with him. That seems more likely.

_That stupid moron_.

He sighed wearily as he plopped down on the edge lf his bed, eyes furrowed, nose buried in his phone, deep in thoughts.

Maybe he should just leave him a voicemail. Then, he'll probably call him back. He nodded to himself at the idea and stood up once again. He put the phone to his ear and bit his lower lip as he heard his little brother's voice for the first time in six months.

_Hey, it's Sam. Leave me a message_.  _ **BEEP**_.

"Hey, it's me, Dean.." He sighed heavily. "I'm not really good with all of this crap but...listen, what I said earlier, about staying away from each other for good...about being better off apart. I...I shouldn't have said that. I was a jerk and I'm really sorry for that." He sighed again. "I don't know what they're gonna do, what's gonna happen...but what I do know is that we're all we've got. We keep each other human. I just...I want us to be together again, you know? Just...call me when you get this, okay?"  _BEEP_.

He sighed heavily and plopped back on the bed, elbows resting on his lap as he let his forehead rest in his phone.

Now for the worst game in the history of games...the waiting game.

 

**...**

 

He kept rocking back and forth, faster each minute. His legs were pulled close to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around them with his forehead resting on his knees. He stilled as he heard footsteps and lifted his head, his eyes darting around in panic. Oh God, they're coming. He slowly uncurled with his palms flat on the dirty cot as the footsteps got closer and he slowly started scooting further away into the corner in apprehension. His breath coming out shaky when the door pulled open. He pressed himself deeper against the corner as his torturers walked in.

"Sammy!" Tim called happily. He wore his usual smug expression as he walked inside, with what looked like a phone in his hand.

The hunters have long before given up on forcing demon blood down his throat to make him kill the demons that murdered their friend. He was useless to them now. So all they can do is avenge the world that this monster had brought an end to.

Sam flinched at his voice as he stared at him with terrified eyes. Every  _single_  day, he took beatings that lasted for hours, that lasted until he couldn't help it, couldn't do a thing but cry and beg. And he was sure that there was barely a spot where he isn't bruised or wounded between his neck and his lower abdomen. His face were covered with bruises and his clothes were ripped and bloody and dirty. He lost a lot of muscle and his eyes had shadows under them and he looked exhausted and scared...no,  _terrified_  with every minute of his life. Psychologically wounded.

"Relax Sammy. I'm not here to hurt you,  _for now_." Tim put the voicemail on play.

_"Hey, it's me, Dean." Sigh. "I'm not really good with all of crap but...listen what I said earlier, about staying away from each other for good...about being better off apart. I...I shouldn't have said that. I was a jerk and I'm really sorry for that." Another sigh. "I don't know what they're gonna do, what's gonna happen...but what I do know is that we're all we've got. We keep each other human. I just...I want us to be together again, you know? Just...call me when you get this, okay?" BEEP._

Tim sighed in mock sympathy. "Even your brother decided to leave your sorry ass, can't say I blame him." He said as he pressed down on a few buttons, smiling as he brought the phone to his ear and he walked towards his victim.

"Sam?" The other line breathed out in unhidden relief.

"Hey Dean." Tim said.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey Dean." Tim said, still wearing his smug expression and smirk.

The other line silenced for a small minute, before it spoke again in a quite angry tone. " _...Who are you? And why the hell do you have my brother's phone_?" Dean asked, the anger was evident in his voice as it shook, but there was a hint of fear in it too.

"You call yourself a hunter, Deano?" He asked smugly.

" _Cut the crap and just tell me where my brother is_!" Dean yelled into the phone angrily.

"You call this... _thing_  your brother?" He sneered mockingly. "How did you even live with him? He's a freakin'  _monster_! you should've hunt him down a long ti - "

" _Screw you_." Dean spat angrily. " _I'm asking you this, once again. Where. The. Hell. Is. My. Brother_?"

A long silence ensued, before Tim chuckled. "Well then, if you asked so. He's with us,  _been_  with us  _for six months_  now. Oh, and he's alive, just not in one piece." The pride in his voice just made Dean even more furious. "You wanna talk to little Sammy?" He asked lowly as he bent in front of Sam, who started scooting further away and made a small fearful noise in his throat when the hunter grabbed his arm.

" _Sammy_? -  _Sammy! Hey, listen to me!_ " He swallowed down the lump in his throat as he heard him whimper. " _I'll get you out of there, alright? I'll find a way to save you_."

" _If_  you can find us, Deano." Tim smirked and another whimper sounded out in the background.

" _Don't you freakin' dare touch him_." He threatened angrily. His voice was low but dangerous, shaking with rage. " _If you so much as touch a hair on his head, then I swear to God, I'm gonna find you, and I'm gonna kill you, slowly and painfully_.."

"Oh I'm really scared now, Dean." He said sarcastically.

Dean hung up the phone and closed his eyes. At first, he just stood there quietly for a while, trying to contain whatever he's feeling. Anger, fear, guilt, regret.

It didn't work. His arm lashed out and shot over the desk behind him, sliding everything off on the desk in fury. The glass of the flower vase shattered as it fell to the ground, scattering the little shards everywhere on the room. He picked up one of the chairs and threw it across the room.

He was angry...no,  _furious_. He was furious at everything. He was furious at his life, furious at those damned hunters...but most of all, he was furious with himself, for turning Sam down when he needed him the most, for leaving him to fend for himself, for letting him leave in the first place. And it's all coming back to bite him in the ass.

_Six goddamn months_.

He fell against the wall and slid down as he cradled his head in his hands.  _Six_  months. The torments that he might've endured, probably every  _single_  day. What he probably had to go through, for hours, all alone.

He swallowed and blinked back his tears, no time to fall apart right now. He needed to save his little brother as soon as possible. He sniffed lightly and opened his phone, dialed the number that he knew by heart. Someone he could always count on in times of need.

The other line picked up after four rings and spoke after a few seconds. " _Kid_?" The gruff voice asked.

"Hey Bobby." He said, trying his best to mask all his anxiety and distress.

" _What did you get yourself into this time_?" Bobby asked knowingly and he smiled slightly at how Bobby knew him so well. But the smile faded eventually.

Silence. "...The hunters...they got him, Bobby." He told him as he struggled not to think about the whimpers and not to cry

"They got Sam. In fact, they've had him for  _six_ months." He said shakily.

The silence on the other line told him that the older man was quite astonished but he managed to stutter out slowly. " _S-six months_?" He asked, not wanting to believe it. And even more, not wanting to  _think_  about what the youngest Winchester had gone through in those six months.

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have turned him down, I shouldn't have - " He kept babbling, more to himself, but Bobby cut him off.

" _Damnit Dean, this is no time for pity party! Now, you need to tell me who the hunters are_."

"I...I dunno, the bastard never mentioned his name." Dean answered.

" _Okay, never mind that. First of all, we need to track them down, find out where they are. Second, you need back-up. Now, I know that you're a pretty good hunter, but it's still risky to go out there alo -_  "

"I'll just take Cas with me or I'll just go alone." Dean said, his tone warned for no arguments. And although Bobby noticed that, he still tried.

" _Don't be stupid, Dean. There are probably a lot more people than you, and not to mention, they're also hunters. You can't take them all on your own_." Bobby argued.

"I will if I have to."

" _Dean, why_?" Bobby asked softly.

"Who do you think we can trust, Bobby!" He snapped angrily, but Bobby didn't take offense in the least. He understood the kid's anger, which was in truth a disguise of concern and fear for his little brother.

" _Dean, I'm talking about friends, people we can trust. Rufus, Ellen, Jo. Look, I understand -_  "

"I know that, but no thanks, Bobby...I'm sorry." He sighed softly. "This isn't about me. This is about Sammy."

Bobby sighed wearily. " _Alright then. Just...please, be careful, okay_?"

"Yeah, thanks Bobby."

" _No problem. And when you get Sam out of there, you idjits come straight to my house, no arguments._ " Bobby said.

Dean chuckled. "Alright Bobby, bye." He said and hung the phone up.

Surely, if Bobby wasn't paralyzed, he would've been his back-up, and it would've made things easier.

...

 

"CAS! Get your feathery ass down here right the hell  _now_!" Dean yelled of impatience. He had been calling the angel for about an hour now and his patience was certainly wearing thin. Castiel hasn't been answering any of his calls lately and he knew he probably had some important work to do in heaven or Sammy was more important. Each minute that passed grew his anxiety even worse, because for all he knows, his kid brother is probably getting tormented at this moment. And that just makes his anxiety even worse.

"CAS! You feathery son of a bitch! If you don't come down here right now, I'm totally gonna kick your ass!" He yelled out once again.

He looked around the motel room, waited, hoping to see the nerdy angel in a tan trench coat, probably invading his personal space or something.

No such luck. The room was empty as it is.

"Cas please." He pleaded softly to the yet, still empty room, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's important... _it's my little brother_."

  


 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was going out of his mind as he paced back and forth anxiously, with all the horror shows that are going through his head as to what they might be doing to his brother right now. He didn't really like how he sounded in the phone. He sounded so  _scared_  and  _broken_  and  _vulnerable_  and so damn  _helpless_.

He had been trying to figure out a way to find and save his little brother from the hands of those ruthless monsters all the while struggling with the guilt that was weighing him down, wondering if things could've happened differently if he took Sam in and didn't turn him down.

It was a huge mistake. He realized that now. They were never better off apart, because something always went wrong when they were apart. And Sam had forgiven all of his unforgivable mistakes, had never held it against him. And even if he did, it wasn't for long. Sammy didn't even think twice about forgiving him when he confessed to him about hell and all the things that he did. Hell, he didn't even believe there was anything to forgive. He had blamed himself for the starting of the apocalypse when Dean had a hand in it too, and Dean had blamed him for it to even when he had no right to. Maybe, he was just scared to admit about his part in bringing on the apocalypse.

He plopped down on the edge of his bed and sighed frustratedly. He couldn't think of a damn thing.

He felt anger and frustration bubble up inside of him as his fists and jaw clenched and unclenched as if he just wants to pummel something,  _or maybe someone_. He thought as he fantasized using all the tricks he learned from Alastair on those damn hunters. The thought brought a small vicious smile to his face. But he struggled to keep it all at bay as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relaxed his tense posture to calm himself down. Because he knew his anger isn't going to help him in the least.

He sighed and rested his elbows on his lap, his nose between his knuckles as he tried to think of a way to rescue Sam. The hunters have got to leave some trail as to where they took his little brother.

He startled and jumped slightly when his phone rang in his jean's pocket and stared at the glowing screen that flashed 'Bobby'. After a few rings before he answered it. "Hey Bobby, you got anything?" Dean greeted.

" _Hey Dean. Well, yeah actually. I've found a tracking spell. And I think you should come to my place. I might need a little help since my legs are kinda...immobile_." Bobby said.

"Uh, yeah, okay. I'll be there." Dean said and with that, he hung up the phone as he walked over to his duffel bag. Everything was already packed inside, so he just shouldered it and walked outside and into his beloved car. He gunned the engine and drove towards the rental office to check out.

 

...

 

Time had elapsed quite slowly for him and he lost track of it. He doesn't remember how long it has been, but it felt like years, like his whole life. He doesn't remember anything at all, not even his own name, except the torment and agony that he endured these past months or  _years_  or however long it had been.

He laid, curling into a fetal position, to relieve some of the agony. The beatings would leave him exhausted, but he couldn't fall asleep, couldn't go into the world of oblivion. He found no peace anywhere, not even in dreams. He'd only get to relive the torture if he fell asleep.

He felt something wet and warm slide down the corner of his eyes and he let out a small, quiet sob.

The sound of the unlocking of the metal door echoed into the room and he started to panic as his heart rate started increasing and his breathing turned shaky and rapid. He jerked up and immediately forced himself into the corner, ignoring the pain the sudden movement caused. He curled into himself and squeezed his eyes closed as he buried his forehead on his knees, rocking back and forth.

One of the hunters named Mark walked in, with a plate of moldy food. A sandwich that had black fungus covering some places of the bread. And that's why he had become quite abstemious that elucidated his loss of muscle and the weight of his body and strength.

Mark walked over to the untidy cot and bent down as he pushed the unwashed plate towards him. "Here's your food." Mark snarled disgustedly as he eyed the tainted monster curled fetally in the corner.

He hesitantly shook his head lightly as he rocked back and forth, which only seemed to anger the hunter even more.

"You're supposed to take what you're given, you ungrateful little shit!" He screamed angrily at him.

He rocked faster, his hands fisted in his head, his trembling arms desperately trying to block out all the psychologically abusive, taunting words.

"D-don'... _pl'se_." He pleaded tearfully, his voice barely above a broken whisper.

Mark breathed heavily with fury raging inside of him. " _Monster_." He spat in disgust before walking out.

_Monster. Freak. Evil. Disgusting. Tainted. Worthless. Pathetic. Monster. Freak. Evil. Disgusting. Tainted. Worthless. Pathetic_.  _Monster. Freak. Evil. Disgusting. Tainted. Worthless. Pathetic_.

He sobbed brokenly as the voices taunted him in his head and he desperately tried to cover his ears, drive the voices away, pressed his trembling palms against his ears and rocked back and forth, desperate to push them out of his traumatised mind. The tears poured out of his eyes and flowed openly down his cheeks, letting out small, broken whimpers constantly.

And somewhere deep in the back of his mind, where he probably couldn't hear it, there was a small voice that kept repeating the same plea.

_Dean, save me please_.

 

...

 

Dean had tried calling Castiel for help, but he wasn't answering and it just kept going to voicemail. He wasn't going to trust any other hunter for back-up, so he only had one option, and that was to go in alone.

_I'm coming, Sammy_.

Here he stood, outside of a dusty and a crappy building, a gun ready in his hand and he's definitely not afraid to use it. He'd kill a human if it means to save his baby brother. Hell, they're not even human anymore in his eyes. They're just the monsters who have hurt his little brother. And once he gets him out of here, he's going to mutilate those bastards.

He picked the lock of the dirty wooden door and slowly pushed the creaking door open, which he hoped nobody heard.

He walked inside slowly and as quietly as possible, a loaded gun on his hand. He looked around cautiously, his senses on alert.

He jumped slightly when he heard laughter boom from his left and he pressed his back against the wall as he moved towards where the voices were coming from.

"The way he's always rocking back and forth and whimpering,  _pathetic_!" One of the hunters exclaimed and he heard them all laugh, which made his blood boil with anger and he resisted the urge to go in and shoot them all at once.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his anger.  _Save Sammy and get out of here_. He repeated it like a mantra in his head. The bastards were in the kitchen, drinking beers and having fun while Sam is somewhere here, beaten and vulnerable.

He turned away and was about to walk off to find his brother.

Until he felt his back slam against the wall, dropping the gun in surprise and he let out a small grunt of pain. Then a hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed.

"Who the hell are you!" He yelled loudly, which might have brought the attention of all the other hunters.  _Shit_.

Dean kicked him in the leg, it was feeble but it was enough to make him release the hold around his throat and he grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him. "Where is my brother?" He growled in his ear angrily.

The hunter furrowed his eyebrows, but then smirked as the realization hit him. "Oh...so you are  _the_  Dean Winchester. I didn't really think you'd come, thought you might've finally realized that your brother's nothing but a tainted, disgusting mon - " He was cut off by his own scream of agony as Dean lifted his arm higher and he heard a sickening snap of his own bone breaking, the pain made him fall to his knees as Dean continued to raise it higher behind his back and finally, he passed out as he fell to the ground in a thud.

"Don't you dare talk about my brother like that.." Dean whispered furiously.

And he turned around, only to find more trouble as a fist came swinging straight at his face but he ducked instinctively just in time. He threw a hard kick to his gut and the hunter fell to the ground in agony. He turned to the other six hunters.

" _Dean_." Tim said and cocked his head as he smiled.

Dean stared, his mouth gaping in disbelief.  _Tim, he was one of dad's friends_.

He didn't notice as the hunter behind him recovered and he raised the butt of the gun and connected it with his head.

  


 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean's eyes fluttered but only managed to open in slits before squeezing them shut. He rolled his head slightly, releasing another pained moan. There was an ache eating away at the back of his head right now, and he reached a heavy hand towards the area, groaning when his fingers brushed on the swollen spot there. He placed his palms flat on the ground and lifted himself up slowly on his elbows, his head spinning. Fully opening his eyes, he blinked against the blur flooding his vision.

"You're awake," a voice said. He turned his head over to see two eyes peeking through a rectangular gap in the metal door.

_Tim,_ his brain immediately recognized. Everything started to come back to him, and his gaze rolled from one side of the room to another.  _How the hell am I going to rescue my brother_? He himself was captured now. And by who? Out of all the hunters, it had to be an old 'friend' of his dad's. Well, his dad sure as hell wouldn't be calling him a friend now.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled angrily. "I swear if my dad was here, he would have so kicked yo - "

"He would have agreed with what I am doing...John was a good hunter, Dean. He sees something evil and he kills it," Tim said as if he was stating some fact, so fucking easily that it made Dean want to go up there and gouge his eyes out.

"Yeah well, Sam's not evil. If anyone's the monster here, then it's you," he sneered.

"Well, I don't really think I'm the one who has evil running through my veins. I don't think I was the one who sucked down demon juice and exorcised demons with my mind or maybe, started the end of the world?" Tim said sanctimoniously, an arrogant smirk on his lips. It morphed into a disgusted snarl as he continued, "You wanna defend your evil freak of a brother, that's fine. But it doesn't change anything. It doesn't change the fact that he's nothing but a tainted, repulsive piece of shit."

"You better take that back," Dean hissed dangerously. "'Cause when I get my hands on you..."

"You'll only be able to do that _if_  you could find a way out of here, Dean-o."

"Oh believe me. I'm gonna find a way out of here with Sammy. And I'm gonna come after you and your pals over there even if it's the last thing I do."

Tim chuckled. "Whatever helps you sleep at night," he said, Dean's glare intensifying even more. And with that, he walked off with a smug expression that Dean had the overwhelming urge to wipe off his face with his fist.

"Dick," he muttered under his breath. He inhaled, hoping that Bobby would somehow figure out a way to get them help. His gaze roamed around the room observantly. The walls were painted white, but they were dirty and blackened with mildew, the floors grimy. The room smelled nasty as if it had barely been cleaned in here. The metal door looked similar to the one Bobby had in his panic room, and there was also a cot in the further corner.

His eyes slowly travelled around the room, but then he stilled when he noticed a bony figure on the further corner of the cot, curled upright. He furrowed his eyebrows, his head still aching like a bitch. The shaggy head was curled into himself, his forehead pressing into the arms resting atop his knees. Dean couldn't really see his face, but he felt a tug lifting the corner of his lips anyway because he  _knew_.

He smiled in relief, hauling himself off the filthy ground, and he ran over to him.

"Sammy. Oh, thank god," he said, breathless with joy. He noticed the flinch and the rapid breathing, but he didn't stop. "Sammy, hey. It's me. It's Dean. Your awesome big brother, remember?" he said, huffing a soft laugh. No response. "Sammy, it's Dean." He knew he was awake, of course, by his breathing pattern. But he couldn't understand why Sam wasn't listening to him.

He licked his lips, staring at the top of his brother's head, who still refused to respond or move.

So Dean did the only thing he could do to get his attention. He gripped his biceps firmly and, despite hearing his terror-filled whimpers, gave him a hard jerk.

"Sam! Look at me!" he yelled desperately. He gave him another rough jerk, and it only made him all the more terrified as he threw his arms over his head and started rocking back and forth, curling even tighter into himself. His whole body was trembling with apprehension, making him impossibly smaller, and he kept making these little sounds of distress and fear constantly. And it scared Dean to the core and it worried him even more than he had already been for him. What did these bastards do to him to make him like this? "Look at me,  _damn it_! It's me!" he tried again, desperation and fear overwhelming him.

He shook him once again. This time, it was hard enough to snap his head up, but he still didn't meet his eyes. His face was twisted up as if he was  _crying_  and surely, tears started flowing down his cheeks and he let out a choked sob, which made his gut wrench with guilt for doing this to him, but Sam wasn't listening to him. Wasn't seeing that it was Dean.

He got a better look at his face now. He had livid bruises forming all over his face. His jaw, cheek, above the eye, below the eye, temple. He had dark circles shadowing around his bloodshot eyes due to sleep-deprivation. He had lost a good amount of muscle, his elbow and collarbones sticking out of his skin, his wrist too small and his arm too thin, his cheekbones higher and sunken in. He felt rage spark inside of him, but then it quickly dissipated as his little brother finally looked at him.

"Sam," he whispered his brother's name, feeling a sudden gush of relief wash down on him. But it disappeared quickly when he heard those four words that brought his whole world crashing down around him.

" _Pl'se don' hur' me,"_  Sam croaked out pleadingly, his voice cracked and trembling, his shoulders shaking. His eyes quickly fell down to his feet, pulling himself in even more.

Dean stared at him, at the little he could see of his widened eyes, and there was nothing but pure terror. Not the slightest recognition in them. Sam didn't know who he was anymore, and Dean didn't feel like he knew him either. Not this Sam. This Sam was so broken and scared, and Dean didn't know what to do about it.

His grip slowly loosened from his biceps as he simultaneously felt a mixture of emotions. Anger at himself and these damned hunters. Remorse. Guilt. Shame. Sorrow (most of all, sorrow). He didn't know what to do, so he just backed away, trying to suppress his tears, wanting to do nothing but break down and cry because it was  _his_  fault that this happened. If he could go back, he'd take him back. God knows he would, just so Sammy wouldn't have to be like  _this_. So that he wouldn't have had to suffer all the things that  _made_  him like this.

So he moved over to the other corner of the room, sitting away as far but as near as possible, and wondering if things could have been different if had only just taken his brother back that day.

Wondering if things were ever going to get better.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Dean woke up groggily to the distant sounds of several boots thudding on the ground, emanating from the opposite side of the door. He lifted his head off the wall, but groaned as pain shot through his neck from falling asleep in such an awkward angle, his hand shooting up to the back of his neck. He glanced over to his little brother, squinting. Sam was curled up on the cot, his back facing the room. His hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead, the lines on his face indicating that he was not sleeping peacefully.

His eyes snapped fully open when the creaking door swung open, clanking loudly as it hit the wall. Six people walked in, one of them pushing a cart of torture tools. There were knives of different lengths, a fierce whip and a metal pipe, and it made him nauseous to imagine them using it on Sam. He hoped that whatever they were about to inflict, they would inflict it on him instead of Sammy. He looked over at his baby brother, who woke to the echoing sound of metal against the wall. His eyes were large with terror (they looked twice as large after all the weight he lost, and it made Dean's heart ache so fucking badly), his breathing rapid, and he pressed impossibly further into the corner even though he was already as deep into it as he could be. Dean abhorred how frightened he looked, and not for the first time, tried not to wonder what exactly they did to him. Some part of him wanted answers, but the rest of him didn't really want to know. He just wanted to take his brother and get out of here so he could take care of him, keep him safe and far, far away from anything that could hurt him.

He shifted his head attention back to what was happening. His gaze fell on the hunters, and his heart began hammering with panic when he realized that they were moving towards his brother. "HEY! Hey, you fucking stay away from my brother, you hear me!" he yelled, sounding desperate instead of furious and threatening.

They heard him clearly, but they didn't listen. Tim, knowing Dean obviously wouldn't just sit and watch the show, looked at two of the hunters and jerked his chin towards Dean. The two hunters nodded and then walked towards him, restraining his arms. He didn't notice, having eyes only for his hyperventilating brother, until he felt them grasp his arms in a vice-like grip. He glared at them angrily as he writhed and jerked, but it was all futile.

"Leave him alone, you bastard!" he screamed again desperately through clenched teeth, still struggling violently against their hold. Two more hunters came to grip him tightly, shoving him harder down to the ground. He kept exchanging his gaze helplessly between the hunters and his little brother, who was cowering in the corner, curling tighter into himself as if trying to disappear. His arms were thrown over his head as he whimpered, rocking back and forth. "Goddamnit! Do whatever the hell you want with me, but you better leave him alone!"

Tim finally decided to look at him, and a smug smirk broke out on his lips. "This  _is_  what I'm gonna do to you, Dean-o. Make you watch baby brother whimper and sob, like the pathetic bitch he is," he snarled somberly, taking the whip and snapping it at the floor. Dean wanted to go on a fucking murder spree when he heard Sam sob again.

"Don't you fucking dare," he hissed wrathfully, continuing to writhe under their grip. "You wanna use that thing on someone, use it on me!"

They ignored him, and swung the whip against his brother's waist. Sam fell on his side immediately when the pain bit his flesh, legs pushed in against his chest, and the way he  _sobbed_ , hard and gasping, made Dean sick to his stomach. All he wanted to do was make everything stop, just  _stop._

He hurled another lash across his brother's back. It all kept coming, and Dean flinched with every sharp snap, wanted to run over to Sam and cover him with his body, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything but watch, and he wanted not to  _look_ because it fucking hurt. It hurt, every little pained sound his brother made. It tore at him, cut him straight through his heart like a razor blade. But no matter what, he couldn't look away because Sam was there and he was crying and Dean couldn't do anything to stop it.

He tried not to break as he said, "I'm here, Sammy. I'm right here. It's all gonna be over soon. It's gonna be okay." His voice cracked and trembled, and he knew Sam couldn't hear him.

He couldn't do anything except watch helplessly.

...

It had been three days since Dean had left, and the time for Bobby to start worrying had long before passed already. He moved back and forth, calling Dean's number over and over, but it seemed that his phone was turned off.

"Damn it, Dean! Pick up your damn phone!" Bobby yelled, frustrated, to the quiet room, throwing his phone on the table and wiping both of his hands down his weary face.

That was when he started to fear the worst. What if he was dead? What if they both were? What if he was taken too? Damn idjits always got themselves into some kind of trouble.

"Damn it," Bobby muttered to himself. He couldn't go save them, so there was only one other person that Dean trusted other than Bobby himself. He grabbed the phone once again and dialed Castiel's number, which went straight to voicemail. The angel had been busy in his mission, but right now, there were more important matters to attend to. If they were still alive, they might not stay that way for long.

"I don't know if you know, but Sam's been taken, and right now Dean's out there to save him. But I have a bad feeling the stupid idjit's got himself caught too, so you better get your feathery ass down here as soon as you get this, you hear me?"

He hurled his phone on the table once more and wheeled himself to the fridge, took out a bottle of whiskey. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink, finishing all of it in one gulp.

...

It had been over three hours, but it felt like it's been going on for days and days. They took turns as if it was some kind of a fucking game to them, and they were brutal and uncaring about how much pain they inflicted on his brother, like they were taking all of the anger and frustration in their lifetime out on Sammy. At one point, he started screaming, and they only laughed at him, and all Dean wanted to do was mutilate all these fuckers. But his rage was quickly replaced by sorrow when his brother started crying openly and hysterically, no longer trying to keep quiet in fear.

"You ruthless son of a bitch," he could only whisper shakily, when it was all over. He put as much hatred as he could muster into his voice, but the tears in his eyes and his face betrayed him.

Tim only smirked. "You know, in the first few weeks or months, when he still remembered you?" He sighed in mock pity. "He kept saying you'd come for him. You know, save him and all." He chuckled. "But then, you never did. Don't think he believed that a lot himself though. It's  _pathetic_. And the way he used to whimper out your name - even  _more_ pathetic." He shook his head, turning away and gesturing for the others to follow. The four hunters let go of Dean and they all walked out, closing the door.

That only proceeded to fill more tears in his eyes, but he breathed deeply and blinked them away. He looked over at Sam, who was lying curled up on his side, his bloodied and shredded back to the room, his body shaking. He stood up on stiff legs and stepped slowly towards his baby brother, crouching down behind him. "Sammy?" he said softly, and Sam flinched violently at his voice. He bit his lower lip and reached out a hand, holding it over his head and faltered, before resting it on his hair. Sam flinched again and whimpered, trying to curl into himself even closer.

Dean only pressed his forehead against the back of his shoulder, ignoring the terrified jerk and the weak struggle to scramble away. He placed a hand on his arm and continued to whisper soothing words against his shirt. "S'okay, Sammy...s'okay. I gotcha," he murmured, tears filling his eyes, his face crumpled. "M'not gonna hurt you... not gonna let anyone hurt you ever again. I promise."

He sucked in a deep shaky breath and swiped at his eyes. He stood up and sat on the edge of his bed, looking down at his brother. Sam's eyes were still darting around in fear, and then he stilled completely when he felt the weight on the cot. He looked as if he wanted to bolt and run, but knew he couldn't. Dean could see his eyes fill with more tears, could see his body tense up into stillness and the twisted face and tight lips where he tried to repress his sob, tried not to bring attention to himself, as if that would make him invisible.

And then he broke anyway, sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming his face.

Dean closed his eyes, jaw clenching at the pang inside his chest. He sighed and rubbed his shoulder gently. When Sam didn't calm down, he moved to the other side of the bed and grabbed his biceps and lifted him off the cot. He brought his brother's face against his chest and wrapped his arms around his shoulders and neck, ignoring his heart-clenching whimpers and feeble attempts at trying to fight him off.

"Shh...s'okay," Dean whispered into his hair.

He kept his arms around his broken and beaten body, and after a while, Sam gave in and slumped against him, his breath hitching and tears rolling down his cheeks, crying so hard that he could barely breathe, until he couldn't anymore. He could only keep his red, puffy eyes open in slits. Dean could see Sam was exhausted, but he was trying to fight the unconsciousness pulling him in.

Dean watched, knowing it was because of the nightmares. But he also knew that he couldn't let him do this, because there were dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep. He brought a hand to the back of his head and started petting his hair lightly, a gesture that brought faded old memories of when they were young, when it soothed him to sleep.

It soothed him to sleep just as easily now. "Go to sleep, Sammy," he said softly. "Everything's gonna be better when you wake up."

He wouldn't promise, because he wasn't sure himself.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Bobby wheeled back and forth anxiously, dark shadows forming around his weary eyes from lack of sleep. His anxiety had grown up a notch for the boys that were no less than his own sons to him. He still remembered the first time John had left them at his house, the protective older brother, calculating and wary but respectful and polite, acting more grown than any child his age should, green eyes and freckled cheeks. And then the little puppy-eyed boy, no taller than above his thigh, with his floppy brown hair and dimples, shy and sweet and hiding behind his big brother's leg. They had won his tough-heart that very day, and turned him into a goddamn softy too whenever it came to them. They gave him a reason to smile and live after his beloved wife's death, something to look forward to every year.

He exhaled softly, feeling the corners of his mouth lift. But he shook the thoughts and images off his head. No time for a trip down memory lane. He re-dialed Dean's phone number, hoping he had finally switched it on now. He felt his doubt transform a little more into belief every time Dean's voice turned out to be unavailable. The damn idjit really was in trouble.

 

**...**

 

Dean laid his back against the cold wall behind him, his arms encircled around his sleeping baby brother's vulnerable and injured body protectively, his fingers unconsciously carding lightly down the back of his tousled brown hair, breaking through the knots. He tried his best to ignore the swollen bruises that he could actually  _feel_  through his brother's thin shirt and the red blotches shown in the ripped places that had been caused by the whip.

It was no doubt painful to watch his little brother suffer through such brutality, and it never stopped replaying in his head ever since it ended, the way they had beaten and bruised him so ruthlessly, careless of the damage they were causing. Sam's whimpers and sobs of anguish still echoed in his mind, reminding him of his failure at protecting his kid brother once again. He should have taken him back, shouldn't have turned him down. He could have protected him from these monsters, from having to go through all of this, from becoming so broken that he didn't even remember Dean or himself anymore.

It didn't matter that his brother was an adult. It had always been his job. He didn't take care of him for twenty-six years just to stop later. But he was too blinded by his hurt and betrayal that he caused. It took a time travel to the future for him to open his eyes. He was his only family now, his little brother, who had been suffering for half a fucking year, gaining new bruises and cuts and wounds everyday. Sam had made a lot of wrong choices that had hurt him in the process, but what was done was done. It was time they lived in the present, and not the past. How many times had Sam forgiven all his mistakes? Accepted his imperfections? It never,  _never_  should have made him forget what was important.

And now...

He was snapped out of his reverie by a faint whimper. He looked down at his brother, whose eyes were clenched shut, his face was scrunched up in what looked to be deep anguish and desperation, desperate to make it all stop. His mouth twisted up and there were tears were leaking from the corner of his eyes. He let out a small, faint sob and murmured quietly in his sleep.

"M'sorry...pl'se...n-n'more... _pl'se,_ " he mumbled, shaking his head weakly against his chest. The long, bony fingers dangling lightly on the edges of Dean's shirt collar tightened a little.  _Nightmare_ , he thought to himself, and felt another fit of rage take over him at those fucking monsters. He was going to make them suffer, as slowly and painfully as he could, the same way they had hurt Sammy.

_But for now, Sammy is more important to me_.

"Shh... it's alright, Sammy. I gotcha. It's alright," he whispered soothingly in his ear, tugging his shivering body closer. He brushed a hand through his locks, tucking a strand behind his ear. He continued his murmurs, "It's alright, little brother. It's alright...it's gonna be. I'm gonna get you out of here real soon, I promise. And they'll never hurt you ever again. I'll make sure of that..."

He heard another sob from his brother, but this time, it was slightly quieter and softer. " _Shh_..." he hushed him again, pushing his fingers through and down his hair over and over, providing as much solace to Sammy as he can.

Sam eventually quieted down. His shivering had abated after a few more words of non-sense comfort and Dean gently thumbed away the fresh tear-tracks that made their way down his brother's cheeks. He sighed in relief after it was over and pressed his weary face into the top of his hair, the memories of the beating assaulting him once again. He tightened his hold on him, needing some consolation of his own. His eyes prickled as the scene played itself in his head it over and over again, one of the worst moments of his life, and he was helpless to it. He moved his hand to settle it lightly below his brother's puffed wrist, careful not to hurt it. The bastards have slammed on it with the metal pipe. Some old scars were visible there too from the chains, but there were no restrains on him now. They might have figured that Sam was too weak and damaged to fight back and escape from them. The thought made Dean's fury erupt like a volcano once again, but he managed to hold it under control. He focused on Sam instead and felt sorrow grip his heart. He squeezed his brother's arm lightly, lifting his head slightly and pressing his nose into his head.

"We never should have separated, Sammy," he began, talking to his oblivious brother.  _Apologizing_ , for not accepting him when he wanted to return, for not being there to protect him from all of this, for letting him go through such horrible things until he lost everything of himself, until this vile place and these vile people became all he knew. "We were never weaker together. We were always stronger together. I was wrong. And I should have..." His mouth scrunched up, tears blurring his eyes. "I should have been there to keep you safe. Safe from all of this...this pain and this - god, I am so fucking sorry you had to go through all of this, Sammy...that you had to go through all of this alone," he mumbled mournfully. This was becoming the biggest chick-flick moment of all time, but he couldn't bring himself to care right now. Not after what he had to watch. Not after seeing Sammy like this.

His thoughts were cut off once more. He jerked his head up when he heard the door unlock.

_Oh God. Please not again_.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean stared, heart pounding, as the metal door unlocked, opening slowly and noisily. He desperately hoped it wasn't Tim or one of his pals again. He shifted his attention down to his brother, who was twitching slightly at the creaking sound, brow creased. Dean was grateful that it didn't wake him because he knew his brother would have a full-blown panic attack if he found Dean so close to him, since he didn't trust anyone right now, which still saddened him but he vowed to himself that he would earn it. He looked back up, and froze for a fraction of a second, before a relieved smile crept across his lips. He released a shaky breath of relief, feeling like he could cry with joy.

"Cas..." he said softly, staring at his angel friend. He felt a billow of consolation wash down on him, and he had never been happier to see him.

"Dean?" Castiel said, his erythraen blue eyes reflecting Dean's own relief when he saw them both. He rushed over to both of them.

Dean's smile disappeared, furrowing his eyebrows. "Wait, but how did you...?" he began to question, but he didn't have to finish.

"Bobby," Castiel answered simply. His gaze strayed over his own shoulder, and Dean followed his eyes to find four bodies lying down on the ground, unconscious.

He turned his head back to them. "They won't be unconscious for long. We need to get out of here right now. I will take you both to Bobby's house. I have already teleported your car to his salvage yard," he told him. Dean nodded, and Castiel raised two fingers to place it on both of their foreheads, but stilled when he heard voices behind him.

"Step away from the boys," Tim growled, pointing a shotgun at the angel, a bottle of holy water in his other hand. It didn't faze Castiel in the least. He turned towards them and took a step forward when a loud bang echoed in the room.

Sam's eyes fluttered open, blinking against the blur flooding his vision. He glanced around the room blearily, settling on the man in the trench-coat and then at his tormentors. He felt terror rise within him at the sight of them, painful memories resurfacing. His head was leaning against something, or... _someone_. He jolted away and immediately curled up protectively, his nose buried into his knees, rocking back and forth. He flinched as another shot rang out, his hand snapping up to press hard against his ears, trying to block out the loud noises.

Dean hesitated with his hand in the air, not wanting to scare his brother any more, but he laid a warm hand on his back. He wanted to give as much comfort as he could, as much as he was allowed.

Sam felt a strange sense of comfort from the familiar warmth.

The hunters' eyes widened as the man in front of them seemed unaffected by the gunshots to his chest. One of them dared to splash holy water at him but he still seemed unmoved. "Wh-what the hell ar-are you?" One of the four stammered out in astonishment and fear. The angel only responded by outstretching his hand, causing them to fly back with a dull slam of flesh as their backs slammed against the hard wall.

Now, the terror was shown evidently on all of their faces, except Tim, who didn't seem to show it very openly. Castiel could still sense the fear radiating off of him.

Dean climbed off the cot and walked over, standing nose-to-nose with him. His expression was cold but there was a tremor of controlled malice and fury in his voice when he spoke. "Nobody messes with my brother, and gets away with it," he growled. "You better watch your step, 'cause I'm gonna come back for you." He stepped back, pointing his finger with a sweep to all of them. "For  _all_  of  _you_. I don't know if you heard about my little trip downstairs. Well, I'll tell you. I've learned a thing or two about torture down there, and I'll be very happy to use it on you."

Tim only smirked, not knowing what a dangerous button he had pushed. He strained his neck to stare at Sam, jerking his chin at him. "Consider him lucky. Because I could have done a whole lot worse to the little bitch, since he deserved worse," he sneered. The white-knuckled fist that shot straight to his cheek made him see black stars for a second. He spat out the blood at his side and grinned in satisfaction at the rage burning in the Winchester's eyes.

He grabbed a hold of his collar. "He didn't deserve  _any_  of this, you son of a bitch," he spat angrily. Sam had made a lot of mistakes, but he wasn't the only one at fault, Dean had pushed Sam away instead of being there for him. He had broken the first seal. But out of all, the angels had the biggest part in this. They both had been played all along, and Sam only thought he was doing the right thing. His intentions were pure.

Dean released him, slamming the back of Tim's head against the wall. He turned away and breathed deeply, trying not to turn back around and beat the fuck out of him. Instead, he looked at Sam, and then at Castiel.

"Just take us to Bobby's, Cas," Dean said softly, running a hand through his hair to calm himself down. He tried to focus on Sammy, moving towards the cot, but making sure not to be in a close proximity with him. He swallowed thickly, wondering about what could be ahead of them.

Castiel gave a small nod and looked at the metal door, raising his hand. It slid shut and locked itself from the outside. He strode toward the brothers and rested two fingers on each of their forehead.

Sam remained curled, clenching his eyes shut. He flinched when he felt two fingers on his forehead and stopped rocking back and forth, opening his eyes slowly and peering up at him. Castiel smiled a little, sadly, at his friend, who he knew didn't recognize him anymore. He had first thought of him as an abomination, because all he had seen was the demonic blood coursing through his veins. He had never thought to pay attention to the huge heart behind his sternum.

There was a gentle breeze of flapping wings before the three disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean sat on one of the chairs in Bobby's kitchen, twirling the beer bottle in his hand. Thoughts ran through his head, all about Sam. How was he going to help his brother when he didn't even know how to help himself? He was drowning in this deep dark ocean of despair and guilt, all these  _what-ifs_ filling his heart with remorse and clenching his gut with shame. Sam was damaged, and probably beyond repair. He might never even be the same again.

He immediately felt his palms shoot up to press against the tears unwillingly pooling in his eyes, not wanting to cry in front of Bobby, who was wheeling around the kitchen to prepare food, or Castiel, who stood quietly at the other side of the room, watching all that was happening around him.

Castiel let his ocean-blue eyes fall on Dean, who seemed to be trying to suppress his tears. He knew what he was thinking about, and felt an uncomfortable, odd sense for his friend (he thought it might be sympathy), knowing how much his brother meant to him. He felt an urgent need to act, to relieve him of his emotional anguish, but it seemed that he still didn't understand human emotions that well.

Bobby forced a small smile as he wheeled to Dean with a plate of food. The silence in this house was tense and uneasy, and it made him feel suffocated. He hadn't found out much from Dean, although he planned to find out the answers of the questions that kept whirling in his mind. All he knew was that Sam wasn't the same anymore and that he didn't trust anyone to come near him. Not even Dean. But he knew that Dean was the one who was going to get through to Sam out of all of them.

He placed the plate in front of Dean, the clink of it on the table bringing Dean out of his reverie. He stopped playing with the bottle and lifted his gaze to Bobby, and then back down to the food in front of him. Dean licked his lips and returned a small smile of gratitude and appreciation for all his hospitality.

"Eat up, ya idjit," Bobby ordered softly.

"I...I will," he replied and huffed out a small sigh, before he grabbed the edges of the plate and stood up, turning on his heel to the door. "But Sammy needs to eat first." He bit his lip and added, "I'm not going to eat when he's starvin'."

He walked out of the kitchen, leaving behind the sad stares following him out of the room.

...

Dean swallowed and rested his palm flat against the door, ready to push it open. He closed his eyes and laid his forehead against the door, breathing deeply, before slowly pushing against the mahogany and poking his head in with a light knock.

Sammy was there and fully-awake, sitting cross-legged and rocking back and forth on the further corner of the room. The image reminded him of a younger Sammy, sitting there like that after a bad day at school, or after a huge fight with dad, or when the nightmares of Jessica's death haunted him and he didn't want to sleep.

Sam flinched and stilled at the click of the door, hauled his legs up to his chest and held them close at the sight of him.

Dean opened the door completely, slowly slid inside the room and crouched quietly in front of him. He bit his lip, his heart feeling like it was breaking in two because he just  _couldn't_  bear to see his brother like this.

He put the plate down and murmured gently. "Not gonna hurt you, Sammy. Just want you to get your strength up a little, 'kay?"

At that, Sam slowly lifted his head and looked up at him, wide eyes bruised and blood-shot from lack of sleep. Dean smiled softly at him, a touch of sadness in it. Sam tentatively shook his head and quickly buried his face into his knees and covered his ears, as if expecting horrible words to be screamed at him.

But none came.

"Sammy, you need to eat somethin'," he said softly, carefully pushed the food toward him.

Sam stared down at the plate sliding in his direction.

Dean sighed, knowing his brother wouldn't feel comfortable if he was in the room. He stood up on stiff legs with a groan, walking out of the room.

But he stayed standing outside of the room, the door open a crack, and he watched as his Sammy slowly uncurled and reached for the sandwich, tearing chunks of small pieces with trembling hands and eating them.

He ran his fingers down on the door, letting a small smile break into his face. He could eat peacefully now.

...

They both ate in silence. Castiel had decided to continue his mission in searching for God and disappeared with a promise of coming back later. Bobby had been meaning to ask a few questions about what happened with Sam, but it seemed like he couldn't spit them out, the words stuck on the tip of his tongue, clenched behind his teeth. But now really felt like a good time, anything to break this uncomfortable stretch of silence. Dean was tense, and Bobby knew that he was waiting for him to start badgering him for answers.

"So, Dean," Bobby began, and continued when Dean glanced up at him, chewing. "What happened while you were there?"

There was something in his face when he asked it, something akin to sorrow and terror, something that horrified him. His face was suddenly drained of color, and he looked nauseous.

"Dean?" Bobby pressed, his voice softening.

Dean's eyes remained on his food, avoiding eye-contact with him, like he didn't want him to see all the emotions in them.

Bobby exhaled, deciding to let him off with this question. He had already seen enough on his expression. "Well, they didn't hurt you, did they?"

Dean swallowed and shook his head. "They only wanted to hurt Sammy."  _And that's the worst pain they could ever inflict on me_  went unsaid, but Bobby knew that already.

There was a dull pain aching in Bobby's chest for his boys. It was hard for him to watch them like this. He sighed again and decided to ask the question that had been bugging him above all the others. "And who were the hunters?"

Dean looked at him and looked away, huffing out a small chuckle. "Out of all the hunters it could have been...it was an old friend of dad's," he snarled angrily. " _Tim_." He spat out the name with such disgust and venom that even Bobby would have flinched if he wasn't so well-trained at hiding his reactions, but that wasn't what made him freeze and drop his spoon to the table. He paled, turning wide, horrified eyes to the elder Winchester.

"I...oh God, damnit," Bobby whispered, aghast, and shook his head remorsefully. "That son of a bitch. God, I should have never sent those bastards to the kid."

Dean jerked up from his seat so fast that the dishes on the table rattled. "You what?!" he yelled incredulously, furious. "Bobby, you knew better than that, damnit!"

Bobby didn't flinch. He knew that this was coming. "Look, I really didn't know. If I did, I would have never done such a thing."

"Bobby, you know the hunters would have been after him after...after..." he trailed off, not wanting to mention the events of the past year.

Bobby sighed guiltily. "I'm really sorry, Dean. I didn't know."

Dean stared at him, but then he closed his eyes and plonked back down on the chair defeatedly, running a hand wearily down his face. "Actually...I'm sorry." He bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head lightly. "The fault is mostly mine... I shouldn't have turned him down when he asked to come back in... I should have been there to protect him," he confessed miserably, his voice cracking with emotion. He swallowed, closing his eyes.

"Don't say that, boy, ya know it's not your fault. Yeah, I mean, ya shouldn't have said no when he wanted to join you again, but...it ain't your fault." He breathed a sigh and turned his stare to where Sam might be right now. "If you wanna blame anyone for the state he's in, you can blame me, or that bastard Tim."

Dean sighed and swallowed, nodding slightly. The conversation didn't make him feel any better, because he still blamed himself for what happened to Sam (something told him he'd never stop), but he knew that the hunters' were the ones to blame the most, and he was going to make them all feel the wrath of Dean Winchester.

_Because they touched my little brother_.


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

The night was pitch-black outside of Bobby's window, the only source of light being the dimly lit stars and the bright, glowing moon over the world, the streetlights illuminating the dark road. It was beautiful outside, but it didn't match how Dean felt right now.

While Bobby was asleep on the couch in the library, Dean sat by the window of the house with a bottle of beer in his hand, staring out into the dark night sky, lost in thoughts and wonders undoubtedly all about Sam.

Sammy. His little brother, his younger sibling, his whole world, his only reason to live, his  _life_. The person whose laughter drives away all of his sorrows. The only person who could make him smile for real, and the only person who could make him cry. The kid he had spent his whole life taking of.

And now he was drowning in deep remorse and guilt and despair, because he failed that job today, and this time, for good. He had a chance to save him from all this. He had a chance to make things different, but he lost it and let it happen. He was his big brother for god's sake! He was supposed to take care of him, protect him. How could he have let all of this happen? How could he make it up to him?

Suddenly, his head snapped up so fast he could have gotten a whiplash when he heard a loud, broken and terrified scream from upstairs. He had never heard him make such a gut-wrenching and blood-chilling sound but he knew it was Sammy.

He ran out of the room before the chair even hit the floor, barely registering the shattering sound of the glass bottle he dropped.

 

**...**

 

Dean threw the door open and ran inside the room, his hands on the gun tucked in his waist band. He looked around for the threat, but he found none. He looked over at his younger brother who was still sitting at the corner of the room, his hands fisting in his hair helplessly and tugging, tears pouring down his face as he rocked back and forth and sobbed. His body trembled, his eyes squeezed shut.

He slowly walked towards him and crouched in front of him. He hesitated, but grabbed his shoulders firmly so he wouldn't move away, ignoring the flinch but pleased when he didn't try to fight him off. "Sammy?" Dean asked softly.

Sam tugged even harder at his hair and whimpered, and to Dean's horror, he started banging the back of his head on the wall behind him, crying even more at something that Dean couldn't understand.

"Goddamnit Sam! Stop it!" Dean yelled desperately as he tried to pull him away from the wall, but even after losing a huge amount of weight and muscle, it seemed that Sam still had an advantage over him whenever he wanted to. "Sam! I said stop it!" he yelled again, and felt sick when he saw a smear of blood on the wall. He grabbed his biceps, and even though it took all of his strength, he finally managed to pull his head away from the wall and straight into his own chest, trapping his arms around his body so that he wouldn't be able to hurt himself any more. He held him tight and let him fall apart.

Sam's breath hitched, crying uncontrollably into his neck and clutching at the back of his shirt, wet cheeks tucked between his big brother's shoulder and cheek. "M-m'ke...t'...st'p," he whimpered pleadingly between gasping sobs. "M'ke...it..s-st'p." He kept repeating the same plea. " _Pl'se_."

Dean's hand slid under the back of his hair, checking for the injury. He felt useless as he bit his lip and asked softly. "Make what stop, Sammy?"

" _D'v'ices,_ " he whispered, the taunting mantra repeating in his head, abusing his fragile mind.

_Monster. Freak. Evil. Disgusting. Tainted. Worthless. Pathetic. Useless. Retard._

Dean couldn't really understand what he meant by the voices, but he licked his lips and pulled his younger brother closer and shifted his head to rest his cheek against the side of his head, his mouth near his ear. He closed his eyes and whispered quiet words of non-sense comfort, hoping it would drive those voices away.

"Shh...it's alright, Sammy. I gotcha, I gotcha," he murmured softly into his little brother's ear, trying to ignore the fearful and distressed whimpers. "You're safe now, no one's ever gonna hurt you anymore, not while I'm here."

 

**...**

 

Throughout the middle of the night, Dean sat silently beside his brother, his back awkwardly against the headboard. Sam fell asleep holding Dean's arm to his thin chest after telling him to stay with him. Dean knew it was because of his nightmares that he found it so difficult to sleep, and he was happy that Sam trusted him enough to make him feel safer.

Dean slowly and carefully slid his sore arm out, the bone popping satisfyingly. He used that same hand to card it through his baby brother's girlishly long hair. He looked over to the other bed and thought of spending the rest of the night there, but then he looked back at his brother, remembering that moment when he tried to fight slumber, and now, seeing him sleeping so peacefully for the first time in what must have been a very long time for the kid. He decided against it and shifted his position slightly to make himself comfortable. He reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and his eyes accidentally caught his brother's right feet, which looked red and slightly swollen as it was burned in boiled water, the discoloration disappearing up into his jeans. He felt sick, and tried not to imagine what happened.

He took the blanket and draped it over his brother and placed a hand on his head.

He never knew when he fell asleep.

 

**...**

 

He tensed up, his head snapping up when he heard a monotone, gravel voice. He relaxed when he realized that it was Castiel.

"You are dreaming," Castiel informed him.

"Right."

"How is Sam?" the angel asked, head tilted slightly in that bird-like manner that was typical to him.

Dean smiled slightly, looking down at his brother. "He's...doing okay." He glanced up at Castiel. "'Think he's finally starting to trust me again, Cas."

"That is a very good thing," Castiel acclaimed.

"Yeah," Dean agreed softly.

The room was filled with thick, faltering silence for a whole minute, before Castiel cut through it with a small sigh. He walked slowly and sat down on the foot of the bed. "Do you know?" he asked hesitantly, which was very unusual for the angel.

"Know what?" Dean asked.

"The true extent of the methods that they used to torture your brother," Castiel told him.

Dean didn't want to ask, but he asked anyway. "Like...like what?"

The entire room changed into one that held terrible memories for him, but even worse for his brother.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Torture, Implied Rape
> 
> The first part of the chapter was not written by me, but from a lovely person pennamed 3DBABE1999 on fanfic.

Castiel may have learned a small amount of empathy from his human comrades, but he still lacked the humanity, compassion and common sense to know how and when to use it. The warrior of God that was really an oversized infant with all his naivety about the human race answered in a mechanical fashion, cold, unrelenting and automated in a monotonous voice that show no emotion as he told Dean the horrors Sam had suffered through for the six months he'd been held captive.

And in turn, Dean listened in an equally mechanical fashion, not because he didn't feel, but because he was in to much anguish to do anything more than to sit there, silently screaming as Cas baraged him with, " _There was profound psychological torture_." Dean doubted Cas really understood the meaning of ' _psychological torture_ ', let alone ' _profound psychological torture_ ', but Sam's mental state was enough evidence for Dean to have come up with that on his own, so it was a ' _Thank you, Captain Obvious'_ moment. But Cas hadn't stopped going over what Sam had endured despite Dean's inner angry rant, and now Dean's mind was cartwheels over itself to catch up to and make sense of what Cas was saying. Cas kept piling on horrors upon horrors for Dean as he said, "They drugged him with several very addictive substances, they tortured him with various weapons, and they repeatedly molested Sam."

Dean felt awkward, angered and disgusted by the things Castiel had revealed. Then those feelings became worse as Cas pressed two of his fingers to Dean's forehead and showed Dean just what Sam's six months in captivity had been like.

 

**...**

 

_Mark grinned with maniacal glee as his victim gave a blood-curdling scream in response to the terrible agony, the scream giving into harsh panting and soft gasps. "Are we havin' fun yet, Sammy-boy?" he asked enthusiastically._

_Sam blinked back tears of pain as he cradled his broken wrist and fingers protectively to his chest, swallowing to quiet down his pain-filled noises. He should be used to dislocated or broken bones, considering in their line of work he had had to suffer injuries like these a lot, but no matter how many times he had gone through it, it was still very agonizing. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, feeling fear and disappointment in his heart when he realized that this was making his chances of escaping even more slim since he doesn't have any use of this hand._

_"Oh come on Sammy." Mark bent down at an eye-level with his victim, hands on his knees as he stared at him with that same maniacal glee in his eyes and the grin. "This is barely half as bad as what we're gonna do with you later."_

Sam looked like he was on the verge of passing out from all the pain now. Six broken bones in only a few minutes should do that to you, all five fingers and the wrist of his left hand. Dean watched with a complete impassive expression on his face, trying his best to block out all the emotions and the dull ache in his heart that he was feeling. But despite all of that, he had been internally screaming as they tortured his brother.

_The youngest Winchester swallowed. "G-Go...t'hel,." he croaked out, aiming to sound angry, but instead turning out more weary and pained._

And despite the flat expression, Dean felt a sense of pride for his brother at that, but it disappeared away quickly when he saw a flash of anger pass Mark's face before a wicked smile stretched across his lips, reaching for his brother's injured hand.

He saw his little brother's eyes widen in fear as realization flickered across his face at what his current tormentor was about to do and he started struggling frantically against the chains that restrained him and prevented him from escaping -

Before the whole room filled with another spine-chilling scream of agony.

 

...

 

_The bucket of hot, steaming water sat innocently on the floor while the youngest Winchester whimpered in excruciating pain from both of his legs. His pant legs were lifted, revealing the reddish swollen and tender skin, blisters forming already. The hunters laughed brutally at his suffering. He bit his lip to keep himself from screaming or crying out, or making any other embarrassing noises, biting down on his lip so hard that he could feel the coppery taste of blood on his tongue, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and tears of agony pooling in his eyes but he never let them fall._

_"Aww. Poor little Sammy. You gonna cry?" one of the hunters, Rick, mocked and laughed._

_"Don't you think this has gone too far, Tim?" a female hunter, the first and only person to show even a little compassion towards Sam, Margaret asked hesitantly._

Dean observed her to be somewhere in her forties, old enough to be Sammy's older sister, with red-ish hair and huge dark grey eyes, faint wrinkles visible on her skin, and Dean was slightly grateful that there was at least even some compassion for his brother in that terrible place. She still had a part in hurting his brother, so he didn't plan on sparing her either.

_Tim's smug smirk changed slowly into an angry glare, all traces of his sick amusement vanished and replaced with a cold, hard expression. He turned his head to glare at her and she looked down, backing off_.

_He turned his head and threw an angry, hateful glare at his victim. "You think this has gone too far? He sucks down demon blood, teams up with an evil demon bitch, breaks the final seal and starts the apocalypse, and you expect me to let this - this goddamn monster off the hook?" he snarled in revulsion_.

Dean saw the flinch at the word 'monster' and waited for his brother to deny that, to fight back, to retort, do  _something_ (that was what he wanted him to do). But instead, he watched as his brother swallowed and ducked his head down in shame, letting his hair curtain his moist, guilt-ridden eyes, still holding on to the top of his injured leg. Dean licked his lips and allowed the emotions seep into his face, just for a minute, wondering frantically that ' _why isn't he saying something_?'

He turned his attention back to Tim when he saw him smirk bitterly in his peripheral vision.

_"Even his brother doesn't want his sorry ass around."_

_Sam's head snapped up at the mention of his brother, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide in confusion, mouth gaping slightly open._

_"Yep. I heard about your brother's - unending love for you," he said sarcastically, smirking. "Also heard about your little betrayal to big brother, Sammy. Very bad."_

_Sam swallowed down the lump. "I - I didn't betray him," he whispered quietly in denial. "I did it all for him."_

_Tim chuckled. "Well, it doesn't seem so to me, or to your brother for that matter." He sighed dramatically. "Can't blame him either for not wanting your sorry existence, huh Sammy? Whether you believe it or not, it does sound like a betrayal to me. I mean, you chose a demon over your own brother."_

_Sam's head snapped up again, different emotions flickering across his face as tears filled his eyes_.

Dean's fists clenched and unclenched in anger at that bastard . He knew exactly what was going through his baby brother's head. The familiar words brought back the memories of that night outside of the hospital for him, and he understood for the first time how deeply those words must have cut his brother through his heart.

**_"You chose a demon - over your own brother, and look what happened."_ **

**_"I don't think that we could ever be what we were - ya know? - I just don't think I could trust you."_ **

_"I bet big brother already knows by now that something's up. But is he even looking for you right now? Does he even care?" Tim taunted, tilting his head at one side in mock-awe._

_"He's - he's my brother. Of course he'll be looking for me," he mumbled weakly._

_"And you think that answers it?" Tim raised an eyebrow, bending down with his hands on his knees. "Do you really think your brother's gonna wanna save you? After all the crap that you pulled? Starting the apocalypse, going behind his back and all that."_

_Sam's eyes darted around on the floor in shame, swallowing over and over at the lump that keeps forming in his throat, the guilt clenching his gut painfully as unshed tears welled up in his eyes, but he still never let them fall._

**_He...he doesn't really believe them, does he? Of course I'd come for my brother - no matter what he did in the past._ **

Dean had never been more pissed at anyone or anything in his life (even pissed was too underwhelming of a word for what he was feeling). He knew the psychological pain had always hurt his brother worse than any physical pain, and apparently Tim seems to know that too somehow. His fists tightened even more as if he wanted to pummel something, his body shaking with rage.

He felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Castiel.

He took a deep breath and tried to relax, pushed back the fury into the back of his mind, because he knew there was nothing he could do right now. They weren't real.

_Tim tilted his head back and smiled triumphantly, looking back at his fellows over his shoulder._

_"Well, I guess we should just call this an evening." He looked at Sam once again. "See ya tomorrow Sammy." He turned his head to Rick and gave him a small nod before he turned away and walked outside, gesturing for his friends to follow him._

_Rick grinned wickedly, holding a bottle of alcohol over his victim, and poured it's contents all over his body. It elicited a scream from Sam as it soaked through his clothes and burned all of his wounds._

_And he swung the metal pipe in his other hand to his head._

_He fell on his side as the sweet darkness took over him._

 

_..._

 

_That same night, Sam woke up somewhere in the middle of the night. His head was pounding from the blow, but he ignored it, staring sightlessly at the wall in front of him. He had tried to deny that little fact as much as he could, but he knew it was all true._

_And suddenly, the thought of staying here forever overwhelmed him._

**_"Look, Sam - it doesn't matter - whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh - the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good."_ **

**_"Yeah, you're right. We can. But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us - love, family, whatever it is - They are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. We're better off apart."_ **

Years of living with his little brother had made him know his brother better than anyone, and right now, he had that look on his face when he was remembering a tragic past or memory. He'd seen that look after a hunt gone wrong, after a fight with their dad, after Jessica's death, after dad's death, after Madison's death.

And he also knew what he was thinking.

And he knew he didn't give much of a reason for him to not believe that, telling him that they should stay away from each other for good, that they were better off apart.

He swallowed when he saw tears glistening his brother's eyes, his face crumpling as he curled up into a ball on his side and cried alone in the dark, releasing soft sobs from his chest.

_"He's right — they were right," he whispered softly to himself in the cold darkness, biting down on his lip to stop himself from crying anymore, but it didn't work._

_The tears kept filling up his eyes, and the sobs kept building in his chest._

_"M'sorry, Dean. Please, help me."_

Dean swallowed, sorrow and pain shooting across his chest, guilt bubbling inside of him, because he couldn't save his brother sooner, had let him go through all of this. He was supposed to protect him, keep him safe. But this time, he had completely failed at that.

He was too late to save him this time, just like in Cold Oak. But even then, he had made it up to his brother.

This time, he wasn't sure.

 

...

 

They were heartless and cruel towards his brother, keeping him starved for days. When they did give him any food, it seemed to be something picked out of a dumpster, and that was one of the times Dean had allowed the emotions to seep into his face as he saw the heart-shattering scene unfold itself in front of him, and he could have sworn he had heard a crack from inside his chest as he watched his brother hungrily shove all the food down his throat, seeing the first signs of his baby brother breaking. They would knock him out from that metal pipe with a hard blow to his head after some of the torture sessions. ( _Cas had told him that that is the major factor of Sam's memory loss, of his current state)._

Forcibly holding him down and injecting demon blood into his veins were another one of their torture methods. They had only used that method for one month, and the withdrawals were enough to break his brother already.

The painful muscle cramps, his loved ones spewing hateful words at him, blaming him for all the wrong that took place in their lives. Most of the time, it was Dean though, and that broke his brother sooner than most things could. And Dean knew all this because of Sam's responses to the things only he could see. During his seizures, they left him alone in the room, letting it play itself out. They didn't even care to put some sort of cloth between his brother's wrist and the metal cuff, just let it cut into his flesh, and that's how he temporarily lost the use of his other hand.

 

...

 

The whole room changed back to Bobby's guest room, and Dean looked around in confusion, even though he was grateful he didn't have to watch the rest. But he was perplexed as to why they had stopped.

Until it hit him like a ton of bricks. What Cas had told him at the beginning, the things they did to him.

And he knew he didn't want to know as he stood in the middle of the room, swallowing down the lump and trying his best to keep his unshed tears under control. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Sam is my friend too," Castiel conceded quietly. "I wanted to help, and that's why I needed you to understand better at what he went through."

Dean dropped himself on the edge of his bed, clutching tightly at the sheets angrily, feeling fury erupt like a volcano inside him at those hunters.

Then he jolted awake.


	12. Chapter 12

For the first time in very long, Dean cried —  _hard_. He held his brother tightly and cried, and he certainly wasn't ashamed to admit that, especially after watching his brother go through such torment and anguish. He couldn't do anything for his brother and he hated that a lot; so he did the only thing he could do for Sam.

Dean held his little brother through the nightmares; when his brother jerked awake and started crying, Dean soothed him with kind, nonsense words and ran his fingers through Sam's hair until he went back to sleep. Dean silently promised his brother that he wouldn't let anything hurt him like those hunters did ever again, and if he had to quit hunting for that, then so be it.

Dean made a silent promise that he'd be a better big brother than ever before.

He cradled his baby brother's cheek with one hand as Sam rested his head against his collarbone tucked under his chin. Dean ran his thumb over his brother's cheekbone affectionately, wiping away the drying tears along with it.

" _I promise Sammy_." Dean whispered softly as he nestled his nose onto the top of his brother's head, fingers tangling under the back of Sam's hair.

 

**...**

 

This whole situation had changed Dean; Bobby saw that much. The cocky, bad-ass Dean Winchester who had avoided what he'd dubbed as 'chick-flick moments', believing that they would damage his masculinity, like physical contact such as cuddling—something he had stopped doing with his brother ever since he was sixteen—was currently holding that same baby brother and talking to him in such a gentle and soft voice, a tone Bobby was never sure Dean possessed anymore. Bobby listened in astonishment as Dean told Sam stories from childhood memories, about their mother ( _A topic he had avoided at all costs_ ) and their father, about everything he could think of. He just saw a whole new side of Dean, and he can't blame the kid for wanting to give all his love and comfort to his brother.

But it still astounded him.

Dean had brought Sam downstairs early one morning, explaining to Bobby that he wanted to try to get his brother to go through daily routines and motions, and after feeding his sibling, led him to the couch. Bobby was sure something inside of himself broke at the sight of his surrogate son's state, how emaciated Sam had become, the sight of all the livid bruises on his face and his exposed arms and he was sure the rest of the young man's body must look even worse. Those goddamned bastards must have done a number on Sam, judging by the way he curled up everywhere he sat, the way his wide, huge eyes were wary and terrified as he looked around confusedly, the way he flinched so violently at sudden, loud noises ( _Bobby had accidentally dropped a glass and had cursed like a sailor when the broken pieces scattered all over the floor, causing Sam to flinch away from the sound and from Bobby himself_ ) and trembled slightly in fear and swallowed convulsively afterwards, the way he cringed sharply and froze at any touch ( _except Dean's_ ) the way he didn't even remember how to properly eat, and how he behaved in such a heart-breaking way around anyone else other than Dean, that it could only bring one word to Bobby's mind:  _broken_. A soul shattered in so many ways, ground into thousands of pieces, just like that glass he had broken today, shards scattered all over and impossible to be put back together. The thought raised unshed tears in the veteran hunter's eyes, but he swiped at them before they could be released from their restrain.

He wasn't sure if the youngest Winchester could understand a word his big brother was saying with the way he is right now, but he knew it didn't matter, because Sam only needed to hear Dean's  _voice_ , and that was enough for him.

Bobby watched in awe and with eyes that were filled with love and affection for his two boys as the younger one rubbed his head against the elder's chest, ear right where Dean's heart was, hearing the steady and rhythmic  _thump-thump-thump_. Meanwhile Dean stroked his fingers down Sam's cheek fondly in response with a soft smile as he leaned in to press his forehead against his little brother's. Sam only seemed comfortable around Dean, more than with anyone else he'd ever been around like Castiel or even Bobby himself.

Bobby felt rage flare up inside of him, rage at himself for sending those bastards to Sam, at those so-called hunters for all those horrible things to his boy. And he felt sorrow for the kid who had gone through so much in those six months—not to mention the kid had already been insecure enough—and those hunters had only made that worse by making him think that he deserved everything they did to him.

 

**...**

 

A few hours elapsed and the brothers fell asleep on the couch. Dean sure looked like he needed a good, long rest after what Bobby guessed had been a long night of looking after his brother. Sam didn't look like he needed the sleep any less than Dean though, what with dark circles still under his bloodshot eyes.

Bobby wheeled himself towards the couch, grabbing the blanket on the other side of the sofa and draping it over both Winchesters before then rolling off again after smoothing a strand of hair away from the broken kid's forehead.

And Bobby wondered silently why all of this was happening to his boys. They had devoted their whole lives to hunting, saving people, had always put a stranger's life above their own. And look where it had gotten them! Neither boy deserved to be in this situation. They had never done anything to deserve this.

_So why_?


	13. Chapter 13

Sam was — for what seemed like for the first time in a long time — peacefully asleep in the living room, snoring softly on the couch. Dean lazily walked inside the kitchen, dropping down on a chair as he watched Bobby prepare some coffee. The scent of the steaming brown liquid already perked Dean's senses, taking the slump out of his shoulders and bringing him out of his fatigued state as his surrogate father placed the hot cup on the table.

He gave Bobby a small smile of gratitude and took the coffee cup, letting it warm his cold hands. He allowed himself to be comforted by his surrogate father's presence as the older man's wheelchair came to a stop across from him behind the kitchen table. He was aware of Bobby's gaze on him, and instantly knew what he wanted.

Answers.

Dean took a sip from his cup, and then lowered it down on the wood. He lifted his head and met the grizzled hunter's eyes, not ready for his questions, but knowing he'd have to respond anyway. He owed Bobby that much.

"You don't owe me anything, boy."

His head snapped up at that, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He narrowed his eyes in thought, and for one insane second, he wondered if Bobby was some sort of psychic, or he may have just spoken his thoughts out loud but didn't notice.

"I know you too well, kid. I've spent most of your childhood years looking after the both of you when your Daddy was too busy over a hunt." Bobby explained, smiling fondly at him. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

Dean licked his lips and nodded slightly. It was nice to know he had a choice, but he made a decision that he would still answer every question Bobby asked, except this time it was because Bobby was like a father . . . correction; he  _was_  a father to them, and truthfully, more than their own biological, flesh and blood father ever was, and as his father, Bobby deserved to know every detail about Sammy and him.

"I want to know what happened since the moment you stepped through that abandoned building's door."

And so he told him, everything.

"They whipped him and beat him with that — that fucking metal pipe, right in front of me, and I couldn't do a fucking thing to stop it." Dean said shakily, his cracking voice thick and heavy with pain and sorrow. He ran a hand down his face, smudging the fresh tears over his cheeks. His bottom lip quivered as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then continued in a whisper.

"They injected him with demon blood, made him go through all the withdrawals. They — they would shove his limbs in boiling water, pour alcohol all over his wounds. They would break and dislocate his bones, and starve him for days, and when they do give him something, it'd either be stale or half-rotten. They'd beat him for hours on end, a-and then they'd . . . they'd . . ." He trailed off, his voice cracking on the last word as tears colored his eyes instantly at the memories, swallowing and biting his bottom lip as he ducked his head down and closed his eyes.

Dean turned to the older man, his features cold and hard as stone.

"They'd rape him."

The cup in Bobby's hand dropped to the ground, brown liquid spilled over the linoleum but neither man paid attention to the mess. His wrinkled eyes widened and tears welled up in them before the horrified and pained expression transformed into one of fury. He clenched his fists tightly in rage, repulsed that anyone could do something so disgusting, so vile to  _anyone,_ least of all to one of the two young men he considered his sons.

Bobby clasped Dean's shoulder tightly as the young man buried his face in his hands, all the while fighting against his own tears. He would kill those bastards if he ever had the chance, slowly and agonizingly torture them to death, but as much as he would love to do the job himself, he knew Dean was already plotting on that.

Any other circumstances, he would have tried to stop the young man despite knowing he couldn't, but this wasn't just any simple and common affair in someone hurting his brother. No, this time; these bastards have gone too far.

They've crossed the line.

And he will not make any effort at saving them from Dean Winchester's wrath.

 

**...**

 

Sam's physique jerked upright and into consciousness, his eyes flying open as he felt something wet trail down his cheeks, looking around frantically in panic, his breathing erratic and heart beating fast. He began to calm down as he became aware of his surroundings, aware that he was no longer there now. The final dredges of his dreams slowly fade away, and his eyes darted around in search of something, or rather  _someone_.

But when he didn't find  _him_  anywhere; Sam started panicking again, his breathing and heart rate speeding up as his head darted from side to side, pressing his back further into the couch, clutching at the blanket tightly as if that was the only thing keeping him grounded now. A small whimper escaped from his throat, tears welling up in his eyes, his face crumpling against his will as he wondered; Did he leave him? Does he not want him anymore? Does he hate him too now like the bad men always said?

" _Nobody could ever want a retarded piece of shit like you, boy_."

He sobbed as his eyes wandered around desperately, hoping that what his mind was telling him wasn't true. He just wanted  _him;_  him to make him feel cared for, to feel safe and protected, to feel  _loved_.

But without him; Sam only felt scared.

He hugged his legs to his chest, burying his chin between his knees while he stared down at his feet, tears streaming down his cheeks as he rocked back and forth, sobbing hard as he kept calling his name between them.

"De..."

 

**...**

 

Bobby was in the process of making another cup of coffee for himself when he heard it.

A whimper, small and low, but he heard it none the less.

Then silence.

And then a long stream of hard, gasping sobs suddenly filled the long distance between him and the broken kid. He wondered if maybe he should check on Sam, go and try to calm him down even though he knew his presence wouldn't be welcomed ( _that thought hurt_ ). He couldn't call Dean down since he was the one who had sent him upstairs to go get fresh and look  _civilized_ , even after the numerous protests that Sam would be scared if he woke up alone and didn't find him. That boy, so busy taking care of his brother that he forgot his own needs. It's not that Bobby blamed him, because if anything, he was proud of him for it; but he just wished that Dean would prioritize his own health too.

The noises coming from the living room weighed heavily on the old hunter's heart, and he felt a squeezing sensation in his gut as he caught the childish version of Dean's name between them.

And he just couldn't sit around and do nothing while he heard his youngest cry in that way.

So he wheeled out of the kitchen hastily, as fast as he could.

And within a minute, he found himself in the living room, staring at the trembling curled up frame of his surrogate youngest.

It crumbled his heart into tiny pieces, seeing him like this; crying like a child for his big brother. And if this was what it felt like to him, then he couldn't help but wonder what those sounds, those tears did to Dean's heart; the boy who loved his baby brother to bits. Lord, how damaged Dean must be, having to hear his younger sibling's cries and witness his tears and pain every day and night.

Bobby swallowed down the large, suffocating lump inside his throat, pushing down his own tears as he approached Sam. He thought about what he should do to calm him down; thought about what Dean would do. But he realized it would be different, because Sam  _trusted_  Dean, felt at ease around him instead of wary and scared; the only person he allowed to come close to him, to help him, to call him ' _Sammy_ ' and not flinch at the sound of it. Dean was the one he relied on in everything, for giving him comfort, for feeding him, for soothing him to sleep, for helping him through all the daily and regular motions of life. Bobby didn't have any of that.

"It's okay, Sam." He said, his voice rough, but soft. A gentle smile played on his lips, despite the dull ache in his heart at the fact that; this kid, who had shared so many laughs and jokes with him, sent embarrassing pictures of his brother to him, freely embraced him without any fear and distrust whenever they met. And now, that same kid didn't even recognize him anymore; didn't trust him . . . that same kid was  _afraid_  of him. But he ignored the deep sorrow weighing on his heart, and added in a light tone, "It's okay. Dean'll be here soon."

Sam froze at his voice, probably from fear or surprise, or both; Bobby wasn't sure. His tears and sobs stopped instantly at his words, his hazel orbs peeking out from his arms; and when he saw the man looking directly at him, he hid his eyes again, seeing only darkness.

Bobby hoped Dean would come down soon and take care of this situation. But he still decided to look on the bright side of things; he wasn't crying, so that was a positive sign. Sam might not like the owner of the voice, but the words were familiar to him.

_It's okay_.

After all, these were the same words Dean would say to him to console him from a nightmare; to calm him when he would feel scared; give him solace when his eyes would tear up after something reminded him of his time with those hunters . . . No, not hunters;  _monsters_. These were the words those dicks never said to him, even when they took away that innocent, childhood name and twisted it into something cruel and mocking.

"It's okay . . . you're okay." Bobby whispered to him continually; a light smile blossoming on the old man's lips.

His gentle and soft tone sounded a bit unusual of him, even to his own ears; Bobby realized that, but he didn't care. There wasn't anything he wouldn't be willing to do for these boys, going out of his character and lightening his voice a bit was just the start.

He bit his lip, watching his surrogate youngest for any other positive effect.

And felt disappointment fill him when he found none.

Words couldn't describe how much he wished Sam would trust him again, and not be scared of him; not try to hide from him like this. He knew it would take time, a lot of it, but he couldn't help it. He felt useless, not being able to do anything to help his surrogate son.

But just when he was about to turn around…

He saw it.

A small peek, barely a glimpse of them really; but Sam's wide, hazel eyes were turned towards him, looking at him uncertainly.

Bobby sent a small, reassuring smile his way; a smile that showed him that he was good, harmless, and that he would never do anything to hurt him.

And it was that smile — as if one granting permission — which brought Sam to fully look up. It was hesitant at first; Sam lifted his gaze up ever so slightly, his nose still buried into his knees, his face half-way exposed.

Then he lifted it up a bit more, slowly; all until his face was a complete view.

And Bobby was just amazed, and also rejoiced at that simple gesture. Because he recognized it as a glimmer of trust, which he would feed with all of his love and kindness until it became a full light.

He heard a rumble coming from the young man's stomach, and Bobby chuckled softly, rolling forward slightly.

"You want to eat something?"

He took in the small, hesitant nod and slowly wheeled towards Sam, stopping in front of him, to which the boy instantly averted his eyes to his feet, but didn't hide again; so that was good.

The old hunter held out a wrinkled hand, jerking his head towards the kitchen with the reassuring smile still on his face. "Want to come to the kitchen with me?"

Truth be told, some part of Bobby would have never expected Sam to take his offered hand; not after the way he flinched so violently.

But he did.

Mouth still pressed against his kneecaps; Sam hesitantly lifted his hazel eyes, staring back into his.

And took a great leap of faith as his lanky, trembling fingers slowly reached for the older man's hand, albeit doubtful, but seized it tightly nonetheless.


	14. Chapter 14

"You should take him out somewhere, you know."

Dean froze at the sudden voice of his surrogate father, breaking through the prior silence occupying the room.

"Think it'll be good for 'im." Bobby added.

He allowed the previous words to sink in to his brain, and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. "Don't you think it might be a bit dangerous for Sammy to go out? What with all the demons, hunters and Satan after him?"

Bobby sighed softly. The boy did have a point on that, but surely, staying here all cooped up in his house wasn't actually good for both of them either, was it? And he told Dean just as much. "I get that you're worried, Dean. But it ain't gonna do you and yer brother much good by sitting here all day. Who knows, maybe it might bring a few memories of his back to him, with you and him in your car and your music?" He suggested, shrugging lightly.

Dean went quiet, seemingly thinking about the advice.

He chewed on his bottom lip, looking down at his baby brother in his arms as he played with the hem of his big brother's shirt, seeming almost fascinated. Despite his shaking hands that always made Dean's heart hurt every time he looked at them, he couldn't help the fond smile that slowly blossomed on his lips at the sight.

It was something Sam often did as a kid, whenever he used to have a nightmare and he woke up crying, causing Dean to wake up too at the sound of his harsh sobs. So, he'd call him to his own bed and hold him until his tears would stop, and then he'd always fall asleep fiddling with his big brother's shirt. In Dean's mind, it had probably been some kind of a soothing thing for his brother or a way to distract himself. Either way, he never minded since it was, in some ways, comforting for him as well.

"I guess you're right." Dean agreed quietly as he took his little brother's thin hands in his own, causing him to look up at him with those large, hazel eyes of his. He smiled down gently at him, leaving one of his hands to run his own fingers through his soft brown locks. "What d'you think, Sammy?"

He smiled up at him, two deep dimples denting his cheeks as he did so. And Dean thought it was just as good for an answer, even though a pang in his heart reminded him that Sammy probably didn't understand much of what was said to him.

 

**...**

 

Dean could feel Sam's bony fingers curl tightly into his sleeves as his baby brother walked alongside him slowly, his own arm wrapping around his narrowed waist as he led him to the Impala all the while whispering soft, quiet and soothing encouragements and reassurances the whole way. He could sense Bobby's eyes following the back of his head all the way until they reached the car, the old man's wheels creaking behind them as he came to a stop before the staircase on the porch.

He tugged open the sleek black car's door and carefully guided his brother inside to sit on the seat. And, not for the first time, he felt sharp sorrow jolt his heart when Sam immediately curled up, pulling his legs into his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly.

And Dean was left wondering once again.

_How the hell did all of this happen?_

 

...

 

The car rumbled as it drove down the open road, Bobby's house left behind miles ago. Dean could almost imagine things being back to normal, almost imagine that Sammy was absolutely alright and they were just back from another exhausting hunt and putting another town in the rear-view mirror.

But there was a part of him that knew better, the one that was still connected to reality.

Sammy wasn't alright at all.

He wasn't alright because his legs weren't awkwardly placed on the floor of the car, nearly crammed against the dashboard and the door. Instead, they were held tightly against his chest, heels digging into the edge of the seat, curled up just like he did back in that room when those bastards came in. He wasn't alright because he wasn't mentally counting cars or trees and his head wasn't resting against the cold glass of the Impala's window, looking out of it dully and watching the familiar scenery pass by them out of boredom, like he had already seen it all a thousand times before.

Instead, there was awe in his large eyes, like he was seeing everything for the first time.

And Dean wondered how he could still look so innocent even after everything he had been through.

The awe and joy was something that he didn't see on Sam's face for a long time, which was why it did make Dean happy. But somehow at the same time, it broke something inside of him. It made it ache, made his eyes burn with something akin to despair and sorrow for his damaged little brother.

Dean swallowed and pulled in a deep breath to keep the tears in his eyes and the pain in his chest at bay, and leaned across the car to turn his music on, letting it fill the silence and drown out his thoughts.

 

...

 

Dean smiled softly when he heard his brother's quiet and off-tune humming next to him ( _Sammy was never good at singing..._ ), and he took a second to reach over and ruffle his hair affectionately, taking it as a small sign of improvement as he felt his heart beam with pride. It may not seem much to others, but to Dean, it was everything.

Sam only looked at him and smiled back.

 

...

 

They stopped at a small lake, just about enough distance away from Bobby's, but still close enough.

Dean had to admit that this was actually a great idea. It wasn't the panacea for their shitty situation, but the fresh air and the sunlight did manage to deplete some of the depression away. The grass and tree leaves were a wonderful shade of light, dry green, covering all the areas surrounding the lake, the water reflecting the marvelous blue colors of the sky and glinting mesmerizingly in the golden sun. Something about the place, the very atmosphere, was relaxing and peaceful and full of  _hope_ , and God knew they needed that right now.

He gently helped his little brother out of the car and slowly led him towards the lake, and Sam followed him without question, putting all of his trust and faith in his big brother just like he used to when he was a small kid, never once doubtful as he clenched his fingers tightly into his sleeves.

Dean sat him down just a bit far away from the edge, then plopped down beside him as well and opened his arm, allowing his baby brother to scoot closer and curl into his side, clutching at his shirt as he laid his head down his shoulder, and Dean brought his lifted arm down and wrapped it around his shoulders, sighing out a soft, peaceful breath and pressing his nose fondly into his brother's soft brown locks, and smiled tenderly at his brother's low humming.

 

...

 

The world was ending.

Dean didn't care.

Maybe that would have made him seem selfish in other people's eyes. But at this point, he just couldn't bring himself to give a crap.

Because they didn't have a little brother who used to follow them around and study everything they did because he wanted to be just like them, looked up to them and trusted them with all his heart and turned to them before anyone else because they were his greatest superhero ( _the kid had wrote a damn near five page essay in third grade on how awesome his big brother was_ ). Because they didn't have a little brother that they taught everything and took care of and protected and looked after their entire lives and went to hell for and loved more than anything or anyone in this world.

And they didn't have to watch that same little brother get whipped and beaten and tortured until he broke and screamed and cried, didn't have to see him look up at them in the middle of every night after the dreams of that horrible past left him shaken and scared, tears streaming down his twisted face and filling his hurt and miserable eyes.

Didn't have to be the one to wipe them all away and hold him close and whisper soothing words in his ear while he whimpered and cried and sobbed brokenly in their arms.

They didn't have to feel themselves break inside as they did so.

His world was right here, fallen to pieces and bits in his arms, but  _here_. And it was all he needed.

 

...

 

" _As long as I'm around... nothing bad is gonna to happen to you_."

Broken pieces of his memories, his past, whirled through his mind. Broken enough that they don't make much sense to him.

_Him and Dean singing. Him and Dean laughing. Him and Dean driving down the road. Dean holding him. Dean taking care of him. Dean pulling him out of the fire. Dean keeping him safe._

But they made enough sense to know that De was  _home_. De was safety. Love. Comfort. De was everything.

"S'fe?"

Dean pulled him closer. "Yeah, Sammy. We're safe."

 

**...**

 

_He begged. He cried._

_They laughed. They mocked._

_"You look a little dirty there, Sammy. Lemme give you a bath," one of them said smugly, voice taunting and coarse, as he held a full bucket of scalding hot water in his hands, freshly boiled and steaming with gray smoke, and their dark and sadistic chuckles made his gut turn and his heart jolt with terror._

_And then they roared with laughter, loud and brutal, as he poured the sizzling liquid all over his trembling body, and laughed even more as he screamed and writhed with merciless pain on the cot, his flesh raw and burning with agony as he sobbed quietly and tried to curl up._

_But it only hurt more, so he just lied there limply and cried, let the tears fall and the whimpers tear out of his throat and his gasping sobs wrack his body and leave him breathless._

_They took their newly-sharpened knives and held him down as they carved words into his scorched skin, their eyes cruel and somber with hatred and rage and their smiles sick and vicious and dark with malicious intent._

_Monster._

_Freak._

_Evil._

_"So you don't forget, you pathetic retard."_

_"Because it's what you deserve."_

_"Disgusting freak."_

_"Worthless piece of shit."_

_"Monster."_

_He screamed again so that he could drown them out._

 

_..._

 

Dean jerked awake to his thrashing little brother at his side, making distressed noises as he shook his head back and forth against his shoulder and the pillow as he was caught in the thralls of another merciless nightmare, a nightly reminder of the broken months he had spent in that room with those monsters. Of the months, the monsters that broke  _him_.

"Sam?"

His weary eyes urged to slip shut into another dreamless slumber, but he tried to ignore it in favor of aiding to his brother as he tried to blink at the stubborn, tempting sleepiness tugging at him out of his groggy eyes and turned his head until his mouth was pressing lightly against his brother's creased forehead, the hand on his back reaching up to tangle itself in his soft brown locks. "Sammy?" he murmured tiredly, gently carding his fingers down his hair.

It was when he started screaming, loud and broken and soul-wrenching, that all the remnants of his exhaustion were completely chased away and he was sobered up immediately, his eyes widening as he suddenly jumped up and grabbed for Sam's trembling ( _and heartbreakingly thinner_ ) shoulders and pulled him until he was sitting up with him. He shook him hard, yelling his brother's name with panic and desperation taking over his rough voice.

It took a good five minutes to get through to Sam, but soon enough, he saw him startle awake, sobs still wrenching out of his throat and tears still streaming down his brother's twisted face. Dean swallowed and wiped the tears off his cheeks with his fingers. Even after all these years of being the one to wake his brother up from a cruel dream ond console him through all his tears as a child, he still never got used to seeing him like this, especially after watching him get so brutally abused and knowing how wrecked his baby brother already was. Things were hard enough for Sammy as it was, and then to see that he couldn't even do something as simple as sleep without having any trouble made Dean's heart clench tightly with sorrow.

"Shh... it's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, his voice a tender and comforting whisper as he gently stroked his hair away from his sweaty forehead. "You're safe now. You're safe."

His little brother's harsh sobs felt like a bullet shot through his chest, the ache of it embedded and lingering in his heart and making it bleed and squeeze painfully, leaving it almost hard to breathe.

Sam's hands scrabbled frantically against him until they caught a handful of his shirt, curled fingers clutching tightly at his front as he sobbed hard.

Then he uttered the word that made his blood run cold.

"M-mons'er..." he whimpered, shaky and strained.

He didn't know why it did so if he wasn't even sure what Sam meant by it.

Sam seemed to sense his confusion because Dean could feel him grow even more desperate, his hands tightening even more on him.

And then he paused for a moment, his crumpled features easing slowly and his eyebrows furrowing instead, tearful hazel eyes darting wildly as if he was remembering something.

His shaky, fisted hands then left Dean's shirt and clambered up for his own, clumsily trying to tug the clothing off but unable to, the movement of his limbs uncoordinated and awkward. After a few seconds of uselessly yanking, his hands grew more frustrated and anxious.

Until Dean gently shoved his hands out of the way and helped him with it, pulling his white T-shirt over his head. His heart pounded against his chest until he could hear every beat in his ears, swallowing as his throat dried up and his own hands shook. He was terrified of what he would see on his brother's body; all the whip lashes, wounds and bruises. Even after they escaped from that room and returned to Bobby's house, he left it to Cas to heal his brother's physical wounds because he knew he wouldn't be able to take the sight of them all. Cas told him that he had recovered most of the serious ones, but he wasn't strong enough to remove the resulted scars after being cut off from heaven.

He had expected it to be bad. Really bad.

It was worse than that. It was horrendous.

Maybe it was because he was seeing it on his own brother's body, but that was the only word he could think of.

His heart jolted vehemently in his chest, his fist shooting up to his mouth before the gasp could escape and he sucked in deep, shuddering breaths through his nose, his eyes squeezing shut as they burned with tears. His stomach churned, nausea swirling in his gut at the sight of brother's tortured body.

Scars everywhere, half a year's worth of wounds all painted over his brother's emaciated body, of whip lashes stretching from one place to another, criss-crossing and overlapping on top of each other, large burn marks, knife wounds and whatnot. Many of them he couldn't even identify.

But it were the words, large and made of deep pinkish scars, that caught his eye, its pencil most likely a knife.

_Monster._

_Freak._

_Evil._

_Tainted._

_Worthless._

"God, Sammy..." he whispered, swallowing as his fingers reached out and lightly brushed over them.

They were deep enough to be permanent, deep enough to remain engraved in his brother's skin forever. They'll fade over time, but never completely.

He imagined all these wounds, fresh and red, and felt his stomach lurch violently. But he managed to push it down on time as he breathed heavily.

"M' a mon-mons'er," he heard his brother sob again.

He pushed down the rising abhorrence and rage burning in his chest and tried to focus on Sam.

Sam, who thought he was a monster because it's what  _those_  fucking monsters told him over and over until he didn't know what else to believe. Beaten and tortured it into him and told him he deserved everything they ever did to him. Hell, who knows? Maybe they didn't even have to.

Sam probably believed it all along.

"It _means you're a monster._ "

He needed to make it right.

"Sammy..." he whispered softly, swallowing hard and taking his little brother's wet face into his hands. "Sammy, hey. Look at me."

He leaned forward and tried to meet his eyes, but his brother's eyes remained down as he cried.

"Sammy, you're not... you're not a monster, okay?" he went on, swallowing again when his voice cracked. "You're not a monster. They were wrong. God, Sammy, they were so damn wrong."

He hauled him in and held him tight, rocking back and forth and burying his nose into his hair as his face twisted and his eyes filled with a thick line of unshed tears. "You're... you're my baby brother. You're not a monster."

He didn't know if Sam was even understanding any of it, and that only made him want to break down into tears even more. But he forced himself to be strong and kept up the litany repetitively, soft and soothing and reassuring, until his broken little brother cried himself to sleep once more.

He didn't sleep that night.

 

...

 

The soft rustle of fluttering wings alerted Dean to the angel's arrival. He didn't even twitch.

Silence filled the dark for a moment.

"I found them," Castiel's gravel deep voice cut through it.

Dean didn't move for a few seconds, just sat silently against the headboard and stared at a spot on the wall, his green orbs icy and impassive.

But then he slowly lifted his chin, nodded slightly and glanced down at Sam beside him, his nose nuzzled against Dean's hip, and he ran the hand on his brother's head tenderly through his hair.

"Then we'll leave tomorrow, first thing in the morning," he said quietly, the tone of his voice unreadable.

Castiel saw his throat bob slightly, his jaw clenching hard and his eyes still vacant, before his voice turned cold and dead. "They'll pay for what they did."

The angel hesitated for a second, but then stepped forward. "I don't think they can," he stated.

That was when Dean finally looked at him, for the first time since his visit, and his blonde eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement, the very first emotion that seeped into his features throughout their entire conversation. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Castiel fell silent.

"They're dead."

 


	15. Chapter 15

"Dead?" Dean asked slowly, warily, after nearly two minutes of stillness and silence, as if seeking confirmation that his ears weren't playing any cruel tricks with him while that one word echoed over and over in his head, a constant repetitive litany of  _dead, dead, dead, they're dead_  filling his head. The shock was still numbing his senses, his mind seemingly unwilling to comprehend the angel's sudden and blunt declaration.

But when the shock slowly began to wear off — it left in its place a bubbling lava-hot fury, waiting to be erupted like a volcano at even the slightest wrong move.

"Yes. I have found their bodies about five states away from here," Castiel replied, completely honest and straightforward this time.

For a moment, Dean said nothing, one hand clenching tight and hard due to the scalding hot fury that began rushing through his veins, the other one somehow managing to still remain loose and tender as they tangled in his brother's hair.

"They were supposed to be my kill," then Dean said quietly, though his voice oddly calm and low, it was still deadly and hard, rage brimming just underneath the surface.

Castiel sighed softly, which was quite a humanly gesture and it would have made Dean smile if he wasn't so enraged at the time. "I know you seeked vengeance, Dean. And..." His intense blue eyes slowly landed on the sleeping figure beside his friend, and there was a small hint of sadness seeping into his usually impassive features. "And maybe rightly so. But perhaps this was for the b — "

It was then Dean whipped up from where he sat. " _No_. Don't you  _dare_  say it, Cas," he snarled angrily, now both hands curled tightly at his sides, firm as stone. "They hurt Sammy. They hurt  _my_  brother. They tortured and beat and raped  _my_  brother. So, I think I was the one who reserved the right to do the mutilating of those bastards. And now they're fucking  _dead_ , and I  _can't_..."

He stopped, closing his eyes and releasing a deep, shuddering breath. "...so don't you dare tell me this was for the best, because I don't believe it for a second."

"Even if you were the one to kill them, Dean, it would have never satisfied your anger or your hunger for vengeance," Castiel explained gravelly, his blue eyes fixed on his face. "They would have been dead. But Sam would have still remained the same. And in the end, I believe your true purpose is fulfilled. Sam is safe now, and they cannot come after him any more."

Dean breathed heavily to contain his anger, his shaking hands fisting and loosening at his sides. Castiel's words held truth, but he didn't  _understand_. He didn't understand what it felt like, knowing about all the things they've done to him. He didn't understand the cruel guilt and remorse that haunted him every day, of knowing that if he had only been  _there_ , to protect him and keep him safe, simply made one choice differently, that he could have avoided all of this. He didn't understand what it felt like, knowing that in all those six months he spent trying to act carefree and happy and convincing himself that being without Sam was better than being with him, not even bothering to give a damn  _call_  every once in a while to check on him, that his brother was being hurt in ways unimaginable to him  _every single_   _day_. He didn't understand what it felt like, watching your brother get reduced to that just because he was too pigheaded and self-absorbed, because of his  _one_ stupid mistake. He didn't understand the feeling of knowing how they completely broke the person that mattered most to him. Didn't understand what it felt like to see all those scars on his body.

And not be the one to make the same ones on  _theirs_.

His fist shot out swiftly and collided hard into the wall behind him.

He punched the barricade until his knuckles bled and there were cracks stretching over the paint ( _which would no doubt piss the hell out of Bobby_ ), smoldering rage coursing through his body and burning his chest as he slammed his fist into the wall over and over, one hit after another, strangled cries of anger shredding out of him as he tried to release the fury that never truly went away since the first day, only suppressed in favor of focusing solely on his baby brother.

But the rage seemed to remain inside persistently, an endless and fiery burn that filled his chest and his entire body.

He pounded the wall until his muscles were sapped of all energy, weariness weighing deep into his bones, and he was left sliding down to his knees as he panted heavily and sucked in huge shuddering breaths, trying his hardest not to break down like he had been wanting to every time the full reality of his brother's state slammed into him.

He bit down on his lip against a harsh sob as he slowly brought his legs up to his chest, his elbows on his knees as he held his head wearily in his trembling hands. Heavy gasps ripped out of him as he tried not to fall apart in front of the angel, tried to be strong because that was what his baby brother needed right now ( _would need from now on_ ). If he couldn't hold even himself together at times like these, how could he ever even  _hope_  to keep Sammy safe and protected from the world?

But sometimes it was all just so much.

And for a moment, he just sat there silently, shoulders and body quaking with restrained cries and emotions as he sunk his teeth into his quivering lip and squeezed his eyes against the incoming burn of tears, too drained to do anything but remain that way. The heavy ache of despair and grief remained relentlessly in his chest until it felt like he couldn't breathe.

But he clamped down on the wracking sobs threatening to rise up from his chest, grinding his jaw stubbornly as his nose twitched and his features began to screw slightly, the first signs of the inevitable break down that Dean had been trying to avoid with all his might and power.

And his damn body just  _wouldn't_   _stop shaking_.

The urge to give in was too intense, the need to just sob out all the pent-up frustration and rage and guilt and sorrow, to release all the suppressed emotions, to just let go and  _cry_  until he felt just as emotionally exhausted as he did physically at the moment.

But then he realized that no matter how much he would try, no how much he would weep or punch or scream or torture — he realized that this anguish would never really go away.

It would never go away because Sammy's condition would never go away.

Because the thing was, no matter how much he would do those things, Sam would still be the same. Sam would still be broken, still be hurt and scared and that would probably never be fixed. He would be like this forever, for the rest of their lives, and Dean couldn't do a damn thing to change that. No deals to sell his soul to, no amount of Castiel's angel mojo to magically fix him up, no faith healers and miraculous recoveries. Nothing.

Maybe there was a spell out there somewhere, but it would no doubt cost something special, an extreme price — a kidney, a life, a soul...

Dean would willingly give his own, all three of those and more, just so he could have his baby brother be okay again.

But then, there was also a chance that there wasn't.

He breathed out deeply, sniffing quietly, and then moved both his hands away from his head and pressed its heels painfully at his wetting eyes, clenching his jaw furiously and swallowing insistently against the obstinate lump in his throat. The damn tears and sobs just kept coming back, and he was frankly getting sick of it. How many times did this happen tonight?

He rubbed vigorously at his scratchy, watery eyes, trying to will the tears and sorrow away. Sammy needed him to take care of him. He couldn't afford to allow himself the time or luxury of vulnerability and emotional release.

He didn't deserve it.

He didn't deserve any relief, didn't deserve to feel better or to feel okay or —

He startled when he felt the weight of a large hand landing softly on the top of his head, his heart and body reacting with a surprised jolt at the sudden contact before he completely froze.

And when he lifted his head, slow and hesitant.

He saw Sammy.

Sammy staring at him with his large puppy eyes, bruised and dark, but with so much faith and trust and love in those hazel orbs. The same look he wore when he was merely a kid, gazing at him like he was the most amazing person he had ever known, the epitome of the hero that he himself always wanted to be, like he was the best big brother in this entire world and  _he_  was the one lucky enough to have him.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat at those eyes, wondering if he was even worthy of that look.

And then he felt his shaking hand slide off from where it was buried underneath his dirty blonde hair and down to his cheek, his baby brother's touch gentle and tender as he held his face. Dean couldn't do anything but stare as the hand pressed a little more, his mind unable to grasp that  _Sam_ , his broken baby brother who bore the scars of half a year's worth of agonizing torture, both mental and physical, was here trying to comfort  _him_.

And in the end, all it took were those two words from his little brother's lips, one consoling phrase — stuttered and broken and said with so much adoration and faith in his soft, trustful voice and his innocent hazel eyes — to make him crumble to pieces.

" _S'...s'k-kay_."

To make him shatter.

He got up from his place on the floor, climbed up on the bed with him and wrapped his arms around his waist, and then pulled his Sammy up and against his chest, burying his mouth into his hair as the tears fell free and his face crumpled completely.

And then he clung.

He clung hard to the one hope he had always had in this painful world, now damaged and wrecked and destroyed to bits and pieces and still managing to be everything he needed. That little ray of light in this dark thing called life, now dim and faint and weak, and yet, just enough to be the beacon that could guide him out from this void of blackness.

Dean twisted his fingers into his brother's hair loosely, and he whispered softly through a trembling smile, "I know, little brother."

He tightened his grip around him and pressed a small kiss into his head. "I know."

  


 


	16. Chapter 16

Castiel slowly walked towards Dean, sat on the edge of the bed in front of him and put a hand on his friend's shoulder as he had often seen humans do to provide comfort and support. Dean sat beside his brother, back against the headboard, his arm wrapped securely around Sam's tall and thin body, as he quietly watched him sleep peacefully through bruised and weary eyes.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Cas," Dean whispered softly. "Everything's just..." He shook his head slightly and huffed mirthlessly, not finishing the sentence. He didn't look at him, swallowing hard. "The one thing I had... the one thing I thought I could do to make it up to Sammy..." He smiled bitterly, looking away from Sam's face. "It's gone. And I just don't know what to do."

Castiel didn't speak for a full moment, thinking about what to say.

"I believe you are doing more than you think," then he said in a low, gravelly voice, but it was filled with a slight bit of emotion that he couldn't name himself. Perhaps conviction was the right word for it. "I believe that this... " He looked at the broken boy sleeping in his brother's arms. "This... what you are doing... it is more than enough."

The silence returned for another few seconds, before Dean swallowed and turned his head a bit sideways towards him, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. "You really think so?" he asked softly.

"Yes, and I believe Sam would have too."

"You should stop starting your sentences with 'I believe'," Dean said amusedly, grinning lightly, genuinely, for the first time in very long.

"I believe there is nothing wrong with doing that," Castiel replied with a confused tilt of his head.

Dean's head fell back against the board as he laughed, loud and pure and real, and from the gut, and Castiel felt something lighten inside him at the sound of his friend's joy even though he didn't quite understand the humor.

The laughter was soon dissolved into chuckles, a faint grin curving at his lips, before they faded away too. The room was overcome with silence once again, but the atmosphere was easier after the lighthearted moment.

Dean stared down at his free hand on his lap. "Hey Cas?" he said softly.

Castiel looked at him.

Dean inhaled deeply, swallowing, before looking up at the angel. "Did it... did it look painful?" he asked quietly, his mouth tightening as his brow pinched.

Castiel leaned forward, looked him in the eye, and said, "Their body parts were disfigured severely and scattered all over, burnt to the bone, when I found them, Dean. As if every joint in their body was bent to the point of snapping and roasted alive before they were sliced apart."

Dean stared at him back, nodded slightly and remained silent. His gaze moved down to his hand once again, and then shifted towards Sam.

He swallowed, and then nodded once again, his lips pursed.

"Good."

 

**...**

 

Sammy had acquired a mild fever throughout the night (the result of one of the infected, non-healed wounds, thankfully not too major). But Dean knew that was far from it, almost guaranteed to grow into a temperature of one-hundred-and-two at some point the next day. Things were always a little more complicated with his brother than what was seen on surface-level, so he knew that better than to assume this was all there was. It was pessimistic and screwed up of him to expect worse, but living the kind of life they both had, he'd be far more worried if he didn't think this way.

Sammy sniffed next to him on the couch, his emaciated form drowning in Dean's one and only hoodie. Hoodies were mostly Sam's thing, but now with the massive loss of muscle mass and weight, none of his own seem to fit him. Sammy was huge before, wide, strong shoulders and broad chest, and Dean couldn't help but feel a sharp twist within him at the comparison between then and now. Sam's bones poked out now, and Dean could have counted every one of his ribs and every dip in his spine whenever he held him. His face was hollower, his cheekbones and jaws sharper with his thinner skin, and his eyes looked bigger, enhancing the puppy-dog expression.

Dean's hoodie somewhat filled on him, and Sam seemed to like having something of his close to him. Dean didn't care much about hoodies anyway, so it was all a win-win and no lose. Even if he did, he would have given it away to his little brother without a second thought if it made him happy and gave him this much sense of consolation.

"Tomato rice soup, Sammy," Dean said with a grin, holding a steaming bowl of his mother's recipe. This was the only food Sam used to be able to stomach when sick, and he told him just as much. "You loved it, remember? It was the only thing you used to eat when you were sick."

Sam scrunched his face up at the idea of eating anything with that stomach. Dean chuckled, scooping up a spoonful and sticking it out towards him. "Just try it, okay? And if you don't like it, then we'll see if we can get you something even easier."

Dean had no doubt that Sammy would like this soup.

"Please?" he said softly, looking at his little brother with a small smile and hopeful eyes.

Sam stared at him for a few seconds, uncertain as he glanced between Dean and the spoon, like he was caught between what Dean wanted and what his stomach wanted. Dean felt a little guilty pressuring him, but it was an irrational emotion considering the circumstances. It was for Sammy's own sake, and he was just taking care of him, making sure he didn't grow any weaker than his fever's already making him. Sam was hunched even more so than usual, his head hung sideways against the couch and his arms limp beside his curled up legs, and it was obvious his fever was getting worse. Dean put the spoon back in the bowl, reaching out a hand and placing it over his forehead.

"Ah, see? You're warmer now," Dean announced gently, sliding his hand up to his hair as he leaned forward, eyes crinkling sympathetically. "Your fever's getting worse, baby bro."

Sam rested his gaze fully on him this time, keeping it there for a while. But then he leaned forward, tucking his moppy head between Dean's chin and chest, seemingly making his decision. Dean chuckled as the love swelling in his heart tried to push his ribs apart, and he held him like he always had since everything crumbled to pieces. But somehow, whenever he took this kid (the same little boy with little dimples and hero-worship in his eyes and love in his big, big heart) in against him and felt the solidity of him in his arms (spinal dips and shoulder blades and ribs and all), the pain of the cracks in their world seemed to disappear for a while, and there was a feeling that opened his head and his heart wide with hope, the hope that they'd be okay.

Dean smiled, and scooped up a spoonful of the soup that smelled like memories of their mom and a simpler life.

 

**…**

 

As Dean had predicted, Sammy's temperature rose to a hundred and two by the evening. Sammy had grown droopy against him, his skin heated and radiating warmth through his hoodie, and his face was glistening with sweat, his eyes glassy with fever. Dean had taken him up to their guest room, made him drink down a few pills, and had placed a cool washcloth on his forehead in order to bring the temperature down, while his hands alternated between combing through the kid's hair and pressing down on the cloth.

Right now, it was almost night, and he was sleeping, but it didn't seem peaceful at all. There was a furrow between his brows, and his limbs twitched every few seconds, and Dean's just waiting for the full-blown thrashing and screaming because that was how it often went. On top of that, Sammy was sick right now, burning sick, and he just wasn't sure what kind of an effect that could have on his already catastrophic dreams.

"Shh..." he hushed softly, smoothing a thumb over the lines, the tightness, in his brows. Sam's head jerked a little. "It's not real. It's just a dream, little brother."

Sam's whimpers were turning into gasps and sobs, trapped in hellish dreams of his memories as his limbs jerked too, not yet thrashing, but almost. Dean wondered which part of the torture he was remembering in his sleep, and felt sick from his stomach to his throat.

"No... no m're... hur's... pl-pl'se."

Dean tugged up the blanket that had fallen away over his shoulders, watched his baby brother cry with a burn in his own eyes and throat, and realized that he didn't really want to know.

 

**...**

 

At some point, during the screaming and thrashing, Dean had crawled into the bed with him in the blinding haze of desperation and helplessness and  _I have to do_ something _to stop this, make this better_. It wasn't surprising, of course, when he noticed it. They didn't stay out of a feet between them for more than five minutes anymore. Sam easily settled down, right as Dean had pulled him in and trapped him against his chest, burying his face into the side of his head and whispering soft words into his ear.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay." Sam sobbed, still fighting against him. Dean felt it all claw into his lungs. "Shh... it's just me. It's Dean. It's Dean. Come on now, wake up, little brother."

His hands were on his back, folded fingers against his sharp spine, and it still sickened him to feel everything so noticeably under his skin and flesh, to remember again how much they've starved and carved this body in his arms, his baby brother with the huge eyes and kind smiles and big dimples and bigger heart. No matter how much he thought about it, it was never enough to get him used to it. He'd never get used to it, or forgive himself, and that pain and remorse wedged between his ribs, in his sternum, would always be there like something solid inside of him.

Dean's cheek fell into his head, feeling a burning helplessness, a weight of still-fresh remorse and failure, as he listened to his cries. He rubbed his back (felt the pounding of his terrified heart), gently stroked his hair, whispered comfort to his ears until he settled down.

 

**...**

 

Dean saw every single one of the wounds and scars on his brother's body once more while readying him for a bath. He didn't break this time, even when everything inside of him was trying to spill out into his eyes and the sobs that wouldn't get out anymore.

Instead, Dean forced a smile, took Sammy's hand and ran his fingers through his newly washed hair while he listened to his heartbeat and soaked in the soapy bathwater. He tried not to stare at all the carved words into his brother's skin, imagine the fresh-blood red wounds it had been once, and all the scars of whiplashes and burns and cuts and other unidentifiable ones.

Dean resisted the urge to kiss his wet hair and felt sick at the idea of anyone hurting him and not feeling a damn thing for it.

Sam's fever broke by the third day, or at least it mostly did. It had been stressful, and that only made it feel longer, but it had only been three days until Sam's fever went down gradually. He only had a mild fever now, and Dean had no doubt that his temperature would return completely back to normal by tomorrow.

Shaven and clean, he helped him change into a comfortable set of clothes, toweled his hair until there wasn't water dripping from the ends of it, then laid him down on the bed and tucked the blankets beneath him like they were five and nine again.

"You feeling fresher now, Sammy?" he asked as he sat beside him, buried his fingers into his hair and smiled down at him, his soft eyes crinkling gently with the love and kindness his brother never should have been denied those past months.

Sammy smiled back, and Dean wished there was more he could answer with, with words and laughs and bitch-faces and punches to his shoulder. But his smiles were the only things he could speak through now, and maybe that was still better than nothing.

The crinkle in his eyes and his smile flickered into fading a bit, until it was just a light crease on the sides of his mouth, barely anything more than a sad curve going upwards. His hand slid over his baby brother's ribs, the place where he knew the words 'unwanted' were incised, and thought back to something they had said when Cas was showing him the things they had done to Sammy (and that wasn't even all of it, was it? He didn't want to know what else there was, though).

" _Nobody loves broken things_."

And he wondered if Sammy believed that, still, that nobody wanted him just because he wasn't as whole as he used to be anymore. For once, Dean hoped he wouldn't remember or understand it. But then, he never forgot the meaning of 'monster' and he never forgot what they called him, so maybe not.

Whether he did or didn't, Dean wanted him to know.

He leaned forward so his eyes were close to his, framed his face between his hands and whispered, "I love you, okay?  _I_  love you. They were wrong. They were so wrong about everything."

Sam's hands reached up and clasped around his arms, staring up at him through wide, confused eyes, looking a little worried (he always worried if Dean wasn't smiling when he was talking to him). Dean wished he could understand. He'd tell him stupid, girly things everyday if it meant he could again.

"L'f..." Sam mumbled, his eyes adrift in wonder for a moment. Then his gaze softened and returned back to him, locking on him, as if he was the very fucking meaning of the word, tender and large and trustful. It twisted something inside of him, the dependence and broken innocence. But the nostalgic memories and reminders of that same hero-worship and adoration in his eyes took him back to all those years ago, and it reminded him that this was still the Sammy who had loved him endlessly, the Sammy  _he_  loved the same way (he never stopped). He wasn't a different person. He was just a different Sammy. Maybe there wasn't supposed to be a Before and After. Maybe there was just Sammy. He had the same eyes and the same smile and the same heart, the same kid he took care of all his life, and maybe that was all that was supposed to matter.

Dean smiled down at him and kissed his forehead.

"Yeah, love," he said, messing up his hair gently. "Now sleep, baby brother"

 

**...**

 

It had been a month now.

Sam was doing fine, or as fine as anyone could after what he had gone through. His wounds of the laceration kind, most of them, have healed into scars, and he had grown less afraid and more trustful towards Bobby. Dean was doing fine, too, or as fine as anyone could after watching what the most important thing in his life had gone through.

Over the past month, he had learned how to hold a spoon and take it to his mouth, even though his hands still shake, which never failed to make his heart scrunch up. He remembered how Sam had held it the first time, handle of the spoon between palms and back of hands, an echo of how he was forced to eat with dysfunctional hands.

He had learned how to pull up his jeans and put on a t-shirt, even though he would still get a little stuck in it sometimes, which made Dean grin, but also want to cry. He didn't know how to button his flannels yet, looking frustrated while he fumbled and grappled, his buttons and his hands going right over, and so Dean would always sit him down and adjust his collar and put the little circles through their holes and ruffle his hair.

He had also learned how to say 'I love you'. Dean didn't really know why he had tried to teach him that (maybe because Sammy kept saying love love love at Dean like some hippie, kept looking at him like he was the goddamn meaning of that stupid word), felt so girly and fucking embarrassed when Bobby caught him repeating it to Sam over and over, Dean's hand shaking his with urgency (come on, Sammy, say it), and Bobby had that damn smirk on his face that looked like something half-way between him planning on using it for blackmail material later on, whenever needed, and half-way between something like fondness.

But then he had calmed down about his embarrassment when he had thought about all those other things that he'd been doing now, like holding his hands and running his fingers through his dumb-ass hair and kissing his forehead (couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed about any of those, not when he thought about those six months and about Sammy being punched and beaten and whipped and called horrible things he never deserved to be called), and realized it would be far more stupid to feel embarrassed about just this one simple thing, and not all the others.

Sammy had been saying it a lot ever since he learned it, the damn kid. Every single time he could. Hands always reaching out and squishing his cheeks and pulling his face towards his own smiling one to hold his attention. Sometimes it made Dean laugh a little, but only on the sad days when he just wanted to be happy about something and couldn't be, which was actually most of the time, he realized. And then there are just the okay days, when it made him roll his eyes and tell him to shut up, with only just a hint of a smile, say that he really regretted teaching him that now.

Sammy was getting better at humming the songs they would listen to in the car whenever Dean would take him out, more in tune and less of an oscillating . He'd curl up to him in front of the TV, humming Metallica or Led Zeppelin or Lynyrd Skynyrd or anybody else from Dean's classic rock tapes, and falling asleep to his own melodies and the thump-thump-thump of Dean's heartbeat.

So all in all, maybe it didn't seem like a whole lot in a whole month. But, baby steps, Bobby had said. And then Dean had said, well, I'm fucking proud of him for all of it. Because he was. Sam ate on his own (sometimes seeking Dean out to see if he was doing it like he was) and dressed on his own (except when he wore shirts with buttons) and made him smile like a dope, and that was a lot to him.

**...**

Sam's mouth was mindlessly agape as he watched the TV screen, where some documentary about polar bears was playing on the screen. Sometimes they watched old cartoons, old movies that Sammy used to love as a kid, and other times, they watched boring (at least to Dean. He usually just fell asleep during it. Could never understand why Sam seemed so caught up in it) documentaries about the wildlife.

That was what their life was now, without ever having expected it to be. God, out of all things, Dean thought.

At times, he liked to think it wasn't all bad, even if most of it was. Sammy didn't have to risk his life for every little part of the world anymore. Didn't have to face monsters and demons and ghosts. He had that innocence again, the one Dean had always wished for him ever since he lost it, and Sammy really did seem happy with the life he had now, even if it was the oblivious kind, and even with all the nightmares and triggers and difficulties of everyday tasks.

But he couldn't help but think, at what cost? None of this could be worth what he went through, and Dean wouldn't even entertain that thought for a second. To even think that any of that could ever be good for something sickened him.

Dean hauled Sammy up and closer, trying not to think about any of  _that_. He pushed his mouth into his shoulder, sighing into it. The polar bears were fighting now, and Dean tried to pay attention to it, he really did, but eventually, the restlessness under his skin started making him shift and shift and shift on the couch, arms too close here, too far there, legs too folded, too wide, his neck and back tingling with discomfort; all of the movements seemed to disturb Sammy a lot, because he kept looking his way every time, and... wait, was that a glare?

Dean snorted. So he pissed the kid off enough to shoot him a bitch-face.

And god, did it make him realize how much he had missed it. His bones were suddenly aching with longing, and he laughed softly into his brother's shirt, the lump in his throat making it crack slightly. Yeah, he missed Sammy's bitch-faces and his constant nagging to eat healthier and his snark and banter, but was that really a reason to bring on the waterworks again? It did make him feel a little too silly and emotional when he thought, yeah, maybe it was.

"Hey Sammy?"

Sam tilted his head towards him, to the side at most, bitch-face still fairly in place, and Dean smiled.

"I love you."

All traces of that glare gone, Sam was giving him that look again, quiet smile and a soft gaze. That look where Dean was the entire universe narrowed down into one puny human body, and the planets and the moon and the stars couldn't even compare in his eyes. It made his own eyes burn even more in the crinkle of his smile, mouth and nose still pressed up into him as he stared back into that undeserved gaze.

"I love you," Dean repeated, shrugging slightly, casually, like he was just saying it to say it, even though his voice shook a little, only a little, and his veins were burning with those words, heat and ache and buzz.

Sammy twisted around in his grasp and pushed his head up under his chin, documentary forgotten. His fingers tangled into Dean's collar, nose smushed against his collarbone. Dean kissed into his hair, smoothing a hand down his baby brother's spine. "I...l'v-l'v 'ou t-t'o."

 

**…**

 

Dean took Sam out again.

Dean knew Sammy liked going out, in the way he smiled up at him when Dean led him into the car, the way his doe, hazel eyes shone with awe as they drove past the world, the way he tugged Dean's hand towards the cassette box, the way he drank in the sight of everything around him when he came out of the car, as if he had never seen any of it before (maybe in Sammy's mind, he didn't).

"You like the place?" Dean asked with a smile playing on his lips, ruffling his hair fondly and burying his fingers in it for a while.

Sam's only response was to wordlessly look around in wonder, but Dean knew the answer anyway.

It was an empty park in the morning, grass and trees filling up the spaces along with pathways and benches settled on the sides. The blue early skies were still painted with dredges of orange and pink colors of dawn.

Dean sat him down beside himself on the forage beneath them and wrapped an arm around his back, letting his brother know that he was there with the simple contact.

Sam's expression smoothed in content and peace, having his big brother by his side as he watched the sunrise ahead of them.

 

**…**

 

Dean stared at his sleeping brother in the passenger seat for a while, worry and contemplation mixed in his expression. He had promised Bobby that he'd run some errands on the way back, get him some things he needed for another hunter, but he knew he couldn't take his brother into the building with his current condition. Some of his fractures and injuries were still healing, for one, and people could be judgmental and nosy.

But he also didn't want to leave him alone. There was something holding him back, keeping him rooted to his seat, his mind telling him not to let him out of his sight. Even though the hunters were dead, there were still other possible threats conspiring against his brother, and he couldn't be blamed if he wanted to be careful. Besides that, Sam might get scared if he woke up alone, but he knew he could deal with that easily.

_It'll be quick_ , Dean told himself,  _and Sam just fell asleep a half an hour ago. He probably won't wake up for a while._

He took a deep breath, nodding at the thoughts as he looked at his brother's relaxed face. He felt a soft, fond smile curl up his lips at the sight.

Dean reached out, running his fingers through his baby brother's hair soothingly before sliding his palm to his cheek, causing Sammy to lean into the touch slightly.

He retreated his hand slowly and cautiously so that he wouldn't wake him with any swift movements, gaze still fixed on his baby brother. It wasn't everyday that Sam got to sleep without any disturbance of nightmares. He knew he might be thinking too soon, but that was something to worry about later.

Dean watched him for a moment, looking at ease and free of haunting pasts, and then sighed softly.

He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and then laid it over Sam's curled up form on the passenger seat, giving him a small piece of himself to keep until he returned. He gently placed his hand on the back of Sam's neck and gave it a light squeeze, leaning close to his sleeping brother.

"I'll be back soon, little brother," Dean whispered to him quietly, then slid forward and pressed a kiss against his forehead. He drew back and smiled softly, releasing his hand on his nape and brushing it over his head.

He didn't leave until he had sprayed several different sigils on the car, for every kind of being he could think of, and locked all the doors. But even after, there was something nagging at him.

He chalked it up to paranoia and tried to ignore the feeling that he might not be back soon enough.

  


 


	17. Chapter 17

"Sam!" Dean yelled, head snapping back and forth as his body twisted and turned in frantic motions, his eyes roaming over the area searchingly, hoping to see his brother somewhere even though some part of him knew Sammy would never go anywhere without him. But he ignored that part because then the only alternative was that Sammy was taken and he  _can't_. He can't think that. He didn't want to think that.

His heart hammered anxiously against his sternum, his lungs constricting as he panted heavily. "Sammy!"

A small part of him acknowledged there were people looking at him now, some with curiosity and the others with worry. But he didn't care. He didn't care. All he cared about was Sammy, and Sammy was gone and he had no idea  _where_  and he was just too goddamn terrified and all the thoughts entering his mind were no comfort. "Oh God," he moaned, clutching at his hair as he looked around for that tall, floppy-haired kid he raised.

The kid he failed, once before and now again.

"Sammy, please," he pleaded, nearly sobbing it out as he fell back against his car, slowly sliding down to the ground, hands still gripping his hair, his head ducked down. "Please, come back to me."

**…**

"Singer," Bobby grumbled.

"Bobby?" Dean's quiet voice came through the speaker.

"What's wrong, boy?" he asked, immediately sensing his distress.

Nothing came through from the other line for a moment, except a wretched, held-back sob, and that made the stones in his stomach drop even further.

"Dean?"

Dean sniffed, composing himself. "He's gone," he said, his voice thick and just a little towards falling apart.

"Sam's gone?" he asked, feeling his heart sink too, the worry churning his gut until he felt nauseous.

"Yeah," Dean said, his words sounding slightly muffled, and Bobby could imagine him, sitting defeatedly against the car, one knee up, his face down with a hand on his forehead. "I... I went out to get those stuff you asked for... I-I... I put all the protection I could on the car. I don't... I don't get it. Fuck. What could possibly… the hunters are dead, Bobby. Cas told me. They're dead. I don't know who or what else could get him."

"Are they all dead?" Bobby asked softly.

"Yes, Bobby! Cas saw them!" he snapped impatiently, fear coming out in bursts of anger.

"Yeah, but are they  _all_  dead?" he repeated.

That left the other line silent for an entire moment, and Bobby knew he understood his emphasis.

"Oh god, Bobby," Dean whispered, sounding on the verge of being sick. "Oh god, how could I be so fucking stupid?"

"We'll find him, boy. The same way we did last time," Bobby told him, wheeling towards his desk and ruffling through papers until he found the spell he was looking for.

 

**…**

 

"Sammy?"

When Dean spotted him, shaking and curled up tightly in a corner, the billow of relief he felt was nearly overwhelming, knots untangling inside of him and tension draining from his muscles. He put the gun in his hand back into his pocket, feeling the coldness of steel leave his palm, and he rushed over to the form of his baby brother, dropping to his knees beside him.

"Hey," he said soothingly, pressing a hand to the back of his brother's tensed, trembling shoulder, causing him to flinch violently. It made him fear that all the progress he had made with him had suddenly vanished after this incident. He was pushed up against the wall, arms twisted over his head (not unlike that first time he saw him in the room), whimpering and crying, strained sobs ripping out from his throat.

Dean slid forward and buried his face into the top of his head, his arms clutching him by the waist, hoping that Sammy would recognize him. "It's okay," he murmured, rough and low, gentle and kind in its own way. He knew these were the words that calmed Sam the most. "It's okay. I gotcha. I gotcha. I'll take care of you. I won't let anyone hurt you again like they did before. I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry..."

Sam had stilled somewhere during his comforting nothings.

"De'?"

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled with relief at getting through to his brother, his grip tightening around his narrow middle. He lifted his head when Sammy twisted around his grasp to face him, face flushed and wet, and he smiled and pushed his forehead against his, still relieved at having found him again, mostly uninjured further.

Other than the massive, dark bruise festering on his jaw.

Seeing it was enough to heat Dean's chest up in anger, his veins burning. He curled his fingers around Sammy's wrists, staring at him heavily, which caused Sam to look back at him in wide-eyed worry and a bit of fear that put a weight on Dean to see. Dean raised a hand to his face and gently brushed his thumb against the damaged skin.

"Who did this?" he asked softly, staring at the wound. He had already seen too many on his brother, and this one bruise felt like crossing a limit.

Sammy said nothing, just swallowed hard, tears shining on the edges of his eyes and on his cheeks, and tried to return back to the security of his embrace. Dean let him, stroking his hair and kissing his head tenderly. Sam's knees were digging into the side of his thighs, his lanky hands balled up into his shirt as his nose pressed up against his jaw, his shoulders shaking. He was still scared and a little cold, and Dean held him close and tight.

He carefully shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around him, for the comfort it provided his brother as well as the warmth. He knew they couldn't stay here any longer and that they had to move before whoever took Sammy returned from wherever the hell he was, and they'd already used up a lot of time. So he stood up, pulling Sam along with him. Sammy still had difficulties walking, due to a number of injuries on his legs, so they would have to take this slow. It was a bit terrifying though, because Dean didn't know for certain whether they could afford that or not.

"Come on, little brother," Dean urged, trying to be as fast while being gentle as possible. "Come on."

Sam limped, seemingly responding to Dean's vital tone and trying to move as best as he could. Dean thought they could make it out of here if they kept it up, completely unscathed, maybe. But it seemed a bit too easy for their luck, rousing his conditioned, pessimistic skepticism.

It turned out he was right.

And he would later think, that he should have known better. He would think that he never should have been so caught up in his wishful thinking, his desperation to make it through this, this one more thing on top of everything, and he had just decided not to look the so-called horse gift in the mouth. He would think of how careless, thoughtless it was.

But he couldn't think when he heard the shot, the loud explosion of a gun being fired. Couldn't think anything when the whole world stopped for a moment, and everything slowed as he stood there, like it was too fast or too much for his brain. He stood there until he found himself falling down, the walls in front of him in his vision zooming down in a motion blur.

He still wasn't sure who was shot, whether it was him or Sammy. He hoped it was him (please don't let it be Sammy). He didn't feel any pain though, other than the one jolting in his chest, like it was imitating whatever bullet got fired. The pain wasn't out though, it was in, deep inside of him, and it didn't feel like a bullet wedged in his sternum.

He looked down at his brother, and it might as well have been (he wished it would have been, wished it would have been in him because that would have meant it wasn't in Sammy).

"S-Sammy?" Dean whispered shakily, his eyes darting back and forth over the same spot, trembling fingers reaching out to touch the bloodied bullet hole on his chest. Sam's head had fallen against his shoulder somewhere along the one minute it took to leave his entire world dulling of color and realism (he couldn't believe this was happening).

"De'?" Sam gurgled, looked so confused and helpless. Dean's chest bubbled with a scream that he tried to choke down in his brother's name.

"Sammy," he choked out, strained, holding his face and turning it towards his own. "It's okay. It's okay. Just... just stay with me, alright?"

"I've wanted to do that for a long time now," someone said.

Dean stilled.

"Worthless little shit," the voice continued (familiar but different with grief), hoarse and raw, but smug. "Got what was coming to him."

Dean's mouth twisted into a snarl, flickering between anger and sorrow as the blinding rage smoldered inside of him. But there was a blurring heat in his eyes and salt in the back of his mouth. He didn't know whether he wanted to scream or cry.

"Tim," he gritted out. Like Bobby said, not all of them might have been dead. One of them might not have been there during the massacre, and it had to be fucking  _him_  out of all of them.

He wanted to fucking mutilate him.

But he clutched Sammy tighter in his arms, buried his nose into his hair instead, squeezing his eyes and ignoring the tears that fell and caught on brown locks. He breathed through the burn of fury and grief and fear in his stomach and behind his ribs, swallowed down the disgust he felt for the bastard.

"Please," he pleaded, his breathless voice scratchy and rough, hard with underlying, controlled anger. "Please." He sucked in a deep, quivering breath, gulped again. "Just let me get him to a hospital. He's... he's paid enough." He didn't want to say that. He didn't want to say those words like what he endured was his payment for his so-called sins (because they weren't his. Not all of it. Not really. But the cruelty of it all was that Sammy was the one who got hurt in such unimaginable ways for them), like it was a punishment he deserved, because he didn't. He didn't deserve a single thing they did to him.

"He broke the fucking world, asshat!" Tim yelled, waving his gun at them. He seemed unsteady. Dean closed his eyes as his heart jolted in his chest. "You think there will ever be an 'enough' for that?"

"Please," Dean said quietly, and then clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze on the ground. He inhaled, fingers trembling against his brother's bloodied chest, trying not to break at the ragged breathing and the small whimpers emitting from him. He made sure that Sammy couldn't see the bastard's face, tugging his head towards his own chest.

He felt something collide weakly against his collarbone, a hand. Sammy's hand. He looked down at him, swallowed and pinched his eyebrows, blinking hard to hold himself together, trying to push down all his emotions in the back of his mind, so he could try to smile at him, reassure him that everything was going to be okay. Even if there was a bullet wound in his chest and he was kneeling in front of one of the monsters that had hurt him. He almost felt ashamed for the vulnerability.

But mostly, he just felt numb.

He had been angry at himself, for ever thinking that nothing could happen in a few minutes. For not thinking that something could happen to Sammy in half a year.

Angry at the world, at whatever was shoving all of this crap on them. Angry at those sons of bitches.

But he felt an odd sense of tranquil, almost numb, thinking about what Tim's next move was going to be.

"Your turn, big brother," Tim sneered. Dean could already sense where the gun was aimed; his head. But he didn't care enough to glance up at it. What he did care about, though, was seeing Sammy through this, soothing him as much as possible.

"Let me have this with him," Dean whispered, keeping his eyes on Sammy as he pulled him closer.

"You'll have all the time you need together downstairs," Tim snarled. Dean wanted to laugh, almost as a hysterical urge, at him, because he didn't know. He didn't know how good Sammy was.

"Let me have this with him," Dean repeated.

"Whatever," Tim said, knowing he was in the advantageous position, but he still seemed to need more assurance. He jerked the weapon against the closest wall. "Move away."

After that, his presence was nothing but a minor nagging in his mind. He would have forgotten that he even existed in those moments (wished he could), and for a few irrationally wild seconds, he wondered if he'd poof away if he did.

But his entire vision, his senses and his thoughts narrowed down to the kid in his arms, wrapped around him, around the coldness of his body against his own chest, the warmth of blood pooling beneath his fingers (he couldn't understand how anyone could fire a gun into this heart). There was nothing more to this world anymore except the pinched hazel eyes staring up at him with fear and confusion, the breaths heavy and short in his shuddering chest, the hands grappling and clutching at him.

"Shh..." Dean hushed, running his fingers through his hair. It was something he had done a thousand times by now, in all kinds of mundane circumstances; after a shower, after a nightmare, after meals, on the couch in front of the TV, when he looked up at him through big eyes and a smile after he helped him settle into the passenger seat. It became so familiar, so habitual, that he couldn't even remember all the times he did it anymore.

"De'," he whispered, breathless, tears lining thinly on his eyes. He was on the verge of panic, not understanding what was going on, why there was something burning in his heart, why it was so hard to move, to keep his eyes open. It only made him more frantic to stay awake. It only made it all faster, and Dean wondered if it would be better.

But he didn't want him to be scared in his last moments. He had already been scared enough.

Dean felt the weight of losing everything behind his eyes, in his ribs, his stomach. He blinked it all back, because he wanted to smile at Sammy, wanted to reassure him, but he couldn't. The muscles in his face felt too heavy, his skin too tight. Sam struggled, and Dean couldn't do anything except hold him up against his body and brush his fingers against his hairline and lie. "It's okay, Sammy. You're okay."

Sam's breaths shook, but he seemed less tense, his muscles slacking. His gaze flickered on Dean's face, back and forth, like he was trying to read him, like he had used to, like he still tried to, still somehow managed to.

His fingers trembled towards him, uncurled against Dean's cheeks. "S-s'kay," he echoed back, in his stuttered, fragmented syllables.

Dean nodded, sniffed hard, finally managed an incomplete smile that didn't come through his eyes, and they were back to a few nights before. Sam's hand was on his head, and he said those same words, with that same look in his eyes of love and faith and trust (where did that get him?), and Dean's bones were full and warm and his heart took all the space behind his ribs until it ached. Sam wasn't dying because there wasn't gunpowder scraping through his flesh and a bullet wedged inside of him, and Dean still believed that there would be more time, more days, more years. A forever, their broken forever. Theirs. And all he should have ever asked for, because it would have been enough. It would have been better than what he got instead.

Dean pulled Sammy's head close to him with bloodied fingers, pressed his jaw and cheek into the hair he tangled his hand in, and hummed a song from a distant memory, a melody he could barely keep in tune because of the glass shards in his throat and the burn of sorrow in his eyes and veins, but it filled his mind with images of long blonde hair and a sweet smile and the smell of baking apple pie. He hummed it until he couldn't feel the erratic airflow against his neck, until the body in his arms grew empty of life (until he grew empty too).

 

**...**

 

The rest of the world came back into focus, but it just seemed gray. Empty. Pointless.

Something scuffed, some feet away from them. Dean didn't glance at it, knowing it was Tim. Tim who had shot Sammy. Murdered him. Hurt him in such horrendous ways that even the memories of it still sickened him to his throat, and  _then_ murdered him. Waited for Sammy's big, big heart to stop like some fucking vulture off to the side searching for food to eat.

Dean clutched his brother tight. His hand was sticky with half-dried blood, thick and tight as he clenched his fists over Sam's sides, feeling it crease into the lines in his palm as he did so. Sammy's head was wet with the tears in his eyes, the salty taste of it sticking to the back of his throat, and he felt it cool into his skin.

He closed his eyes as more of them dropped, like rain on the windshields of their car, and waited for the coolness of a gun to his head instead.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: slight mentions of torture and mildly graphic descriptions of injuries near the end

 

Dean felt a cold circle against his forehead. A click echoed.

And he thought he'd feel peace, knowing that he'd be with Sammy after it was over, but he only felt incomplete and unfulfilled. And all he could think was that it didn't feel right to leave before he made him pay, before he made the same marks on Tim that he made on Sammy. He felt empty and heavy and unreal, far from the peace he had expected.

And he felt achingly hungry for vengeance, for spilling blood.

Tim wouldn't have expected the swift hand that slammed onto the side of his gun, the leg that shot out and collided into his knee, hard enough to shock him and trip him a few steps back. He wouldn't have expected it because maybe Dean hadn't expected it either. It happened, almost in a daze, a blur, and before he knew it, the gun was in his hand, and he was pointing it at the man who had pointed that same gun at Sammy.

"Go ahead," Tim sneered, bent over with his hand on his knee, tense shoulders betraying his temerity. "You're just as much a monster as he was."

_Monster._ To hear him call Sammy that, after having just felt his breaths cease and his heart stop in his chest, was crossing something way beyond the realm of boundaries.  _Was_. It was almost surreal how much significance there could be in a simple word. Something already passed. Gone. Sammy was gone.

He had it aimed at his chest (like he had had it aimed at his little brother's chest only just ten minutes ago), and he wished he could press his finger on the trigger. He thought about how it would be over, how he could just finish this and go back to Sammy, take him to Bobby's and clean him up (and maybe find a way to get to him if he couldn't get him back). But it'd be too quick, not enough. Not enough for this hungry void in his gut, pushing for the satisfaction of a knife on skin and the snap of bones and the whip on his flesh, for the justice of making him suffer what Sammy suffered.

So he pulled it down and shot him in the leg instead.

 

**…**

 

Dean laid Sam back against a corner and put his arms over his stomach to make him comfortable, as if it would matter (as if he'd look up and smile at him for it). He stared at him, kept staring at him, as if maybe he would. He didn't. And Dean turned away before that realization could punch through his ribs and leave him breathless and aching.

He turned, and Tim was there, scrambling back, away, leaving trails and scrapes of blood on the ground, palm shoving down on his calf. Maybe trying to escape. Maybe not really going anywhere but far, far away from him.

It didn't really matter. He stepped on his hand and rammed his boot down until he heard cracks amidst the scream.

 

**...**

 

His clothes were spattered with blood, and the room smelled of sickening copper and vomit and excessive sweat. But when it was all over, he walked over to Sammy, fell to his knees in front of him and hauled him in and held him close. The cold solidity of him made the pain finally hit him, and it punched through his ribs and it left him breathless and aching like he hadn't let it before, and he was burying his face into his shoulders, trying not to drown in it, trying not to scream from it.

He pulled himself together after a while, swiped his hands over his face and sniffed. He breathed, closing his eyes. And then he adjusted his jacket properly over Sammy's shoulders and grabbed him by his back, under his arms, under his thighs, hurling him up.

He carried him to the car, folded him into the passenger seat and stared at him and waited for a smile that didn't come. He turned, rounded the car slowly so he could get into the driver's seat. His eyes and nose stung, and he could barely see or breathe, but he revved the engine and wondered what Bobby would say to him. He hoped he'd tell him that it was all his fault, because it was.

 

**...**

 

Bobby didn't tell him that it was all his fault.

He only took one look at Sam, face pale and a jacket draped over him, then looked at Dean, then closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

Dean's arms ached, but he waited in the doorway until Bobby breathed in deep and faced him again. He waited for the anger and words that would magnify his guilt, and also satisfy it, make him feel like he was getting what he deserved.

He silently moved aside, and Dean was still wishing someone would hate him more than he hated himself for this (he was still wishing Sammy was alive).

 

**...**

 

Dean settled Sam on the couch. He was tired, and his arms still ached to his bones, and he just wanted to be wherever Sammy was right now. Heaven. He had to be in heaven right about now, because Sammy was good, and he would have done anything for this world, to save it. And those bastards never understood that. Sometimes Dean wondered if he hadn't either until Sam believed that he deserved to be torn apart the way he did in order to compensate for his mistakes. And now Sam was lying on the couch with stitches in his chest, a bullet in bloody water on the table, and he was pale and cold and lifeless.

Bobby rolled up beside him, looked as devastated as a father who lost a kid would. His face was haggard, his eyes older and wearier and loaded with sorrow.

Dean couldn't understand people who said that everything happened for a reason. What reason could there be for Sammy to be tortured, to have all of him ripped out of him until he couldn't remember who he was anymore, and then murdered?

"He never deserved any of this," Dean whispered, clutching his hand. He glanced at Bobby. "He  _never_ deserved it. I…I promised him that I'd keep him safe and... oh god, Bobby…" He clamped a hand over his mouth, clenched his eyes shut and breathed until he knew his aching, sick stomach wouldn't cleanse itself. "I-I should have... I should have..." he faded off as his voice broke from the knives lodged in his throat and chest, and he rubbed a hand over his forehead, down his face. There were too many things he should have done, and he didn't even know where to begin to count them, and so he left it there, as if it was enough to sum up all the things he wished he could say, things he wished he could have done better.

Bobby's hand fell on his shoulder, warm and almost comforting. Almost.

"Take it from an old man who's had his own 'should haves', son," he said, and his eyes were heavy and tired and red, but they were soft. "What you did was enough. Sam would tell you that too."

And all Dean could think to that was,  _enough would have been good if Sammy was still breathing_.

 

**...**

 

Dean threw up twice in the next three hours.

His stomach was empty, and he was still feeling like there were stones piling up in there. He looked at Sammy and thought of everything they had done to him, and how it wasn't supposed to end like it did. Sammy never deserved it, none of it. He wanted to scream this at someone, whoever decided that bad things can just happen to people that deserve it the least. He looked at Sammy and wondered why that was just how things worked, and why they were all supposed to accept it.

He breathed into his knees, leaning against the couch, hand still entangled in his brother's cold fingers. He wanted to be empty again, like in that cabin after Cold Oak, like in the warehouse where Sammy died and he almost died with him too. He wanted it to end. He wanted to go back and let Tim shoot him.

He never did feel complete after anyway.

 

**...**

 

Dean heard fluttering wings weaving through air, and he looked up from his knees to find the trench-coated angel standing by Sam, a sad droop in his deep blue eyes as he stared at him. Dean straightened, eyes widening, because maybe… maybe Cas could…

"I can't, Dean," Cas told him softly, as if reading his thoughts. "You know that."

"Please," Dean begged, breathless with desperation and need, his eyes watering again. "Please. Y-you have to… please."

The sorrow in Cas' gaze deepened, his gaze turning on Dean. "I'm sorry."

"Fix him," Dean pleaded, hand tightening on Sam's. He knew. He already knew that it wasn't possible, that Cas couldn't do anything, but this was all he had, and so he ignored all rationality.

"My powers are not what they once were, Dean," Cas explained quietly. "I cannot help. I cannot bring the dead back into living."

Dean pressed his raw eyes shut, bowing his head down hopelessly, shoulders trembling.

Castiel sat beside him and didn't disappear until the next morning came.

 

**...**

 

There was an unknown man standing over Sam's bed the next time he walked back in. He had blonde hair, green undershirt over an open green button-up with folded sleeves, matching the color of his eyes. They were staring down at Sam, head tilted to the side, scrutinizing and in wonder, as his hand brushed over Sam's forehead.

Dean's heart jolted at the same time his steps did. Knowing all the things they did, the thought of any strange man coming near Sammy, even if they couldn't hurt him anymore, made his stomach crawl and his heart bloat with fear, his body ablaze with anger.

Dean pushed all pain and emotions aside, and pulled his gun out of his waistband. He raised it and pointed it at the man. "Back away from him."

The man didn't look at him, didn't listen to him, calm and unfazed even at gunpoint. Dean wanted to pull the trigger.

"He is quite beautiful, isn't he?" he said, tilting his head to the other side. "I'm glad they gave him the benefit of striking genetics."

Dean felt confused, furious. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?"

He paused. Then he removed his hand off of Sam, and Dean wished he would move further away. "My apologies," he said, not sounding contrite at all, but rather saying it out of a false kind of formality. He looked up, his gaze reposed, and smiled, small and eerie. "Where are my manners? Well, I suppose it's easy to forget about them when you've spent an eternity in a fiery cage."

Dean's breath caught in his throat, fear becoming outright terror, seizing his heart and stomach and his muscles.

"I'm the one your brother set free," he said as a way of introduction, returning his gaze back to Sam's face, his fingers back to his head, and it only made Dean sicker. "I owe him. It's why I did what I did to those sanctimonious, denim-clad apes."

Dean was momentarily thrown by the revelation that it was  _Satan_  who punished the bastards that hurt Sammy, and for a second, he felt an odd sense of respect until he realized that this was the  _devil_ , and he was the 'sin' that Sammy had undeservingly suffered for. "He did nothing for you," he snarled. Sam tried to save the world, save it from  _him_.

Lucifer smiled softly, almost like a father gently correcting his son's wrong beliefs. "My standing here proves quite the contrary. And for this, I am here to pay him back."

 

**...**

 

Sam's chest was heaving with breaths and a beating heart in it, and Dean grabbed onto his shirt like a lifeline and wrapped himself around Sam before he could even cough out the unsettling sensation of sudden full lungs after empty ones for so long.

"De'," Sam wheezed, and Dean gripped the back of his neck tightly and closed his eyes and buried himself into the warmth of his body. He wasn't cold anymore, wasn't pale and bloodless and dead.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean whispered, rubbing his back. "It's all okay now."

"D-Dean?"

Dean froze.

There were no slurs, no fragmented syllables and a push in his voice that sounded like he was struggling to get his words out. It was breathless, stuttered, but the kind of stuttered that came from disuse and worry, not from the confusion of how to use his vocal chords in order to speak.

It was clear and strong and  _okay_. It was okay.

And Dean wondered how he could be so burn out, so exhausted from emotions, and still be so full of them, still feel more than he already did.

"Sammy?" he choked, eyes burning, gripping him tighter. "God, Sammy. You're okay. You're okay."

It wasn't a white lie anymore, a false, soothing comfort. It was true. It was real. A statement. Something eased inside of him until he felt like he was floating inside, and something else that followed like a heated ache, a blister of emotion at the unloading of an endless pain.

"What's going on, Dean?" Sam asked softly, still panting a little. But the flow of his breaths seemed to have balanced out for the most part.

Dean didn't answer him. Only continued with his mantras of "you're okay. You're okay," because he never thought it would ever become anything more than a fake promise.

 

**…**

 

Sammy didn't remember those six months. Lucifer took those memories away, which made sense, because it took the trauma away. He must have physically healed most of him too, judging by the lack of bruises on his face and the intact skin on his wrists (all that was left was a scar that formed after six months of metal digging into it, which meant Lucifer didn't take the scars away), had fixed the damage to his brain too.

Dean never would have thought that he'd have to be grateful to  _Satan_  one day. Bobby thought the same thing too when Dean told him everything (at first, he was angry, asking him what he did to bring Sam back. But after it was settled that Dean didn't do anything stupid, he looked relieved as if everything was right again, even if a bit troubled at the idea of having the devil himself in his house).

"What happened, Dean?" Sam had asked for the nth time, after Dean had dragged him up to the guest room that they had stayed in, swathed him in blankets and forced him to gulp down a sandwich (he almost fed it to him himself, maybe because he was still not yet out of his habits and still couldn't believe this was their reality again) and some water.

"How much do you remember?" Dean had asked him in return.

"Not much. I remember hunters picking the lock of my hotel room, barging in and then shoving a needle into my neck, and then I passed out. Then I woke up here," Sam had replied.

Dean was still fuming over that, finding out that they had intruded into his room and took him. Dean hadn't told him what they had done to him, or what had happened after, just that they were here six months later, and then made him lie down on the bed. Sam had asked, "what happened in those six months?" and Dean had stayed silent, pulled the blankets up over his shoulders and ignored his frustrated look when Dean refused to tell him more. How could he make him understand that it was better if he didn't know?

"Get some rest," Dean told him. "You've been through a lot."

"I'm not tired," Sam said stubbornly. "Why aren't you telling me anything? What did they do, Dean?"

Dean clenched his jaw as he pushed back his memories and the emotions that swept him along with those images, felt the ache in his chest press against his eyes.

Sam was staring at him, and whatever he saw made him back down. His features softened, and he didn't say anything else. Dean reached down and carded his fingers through his hair, sighed lightly.

"All you need to know," he said quietly, "is that it's not worth remembering."

Then he stepped back, turned and walked off.

 

**…**

 

"DEAN!"

Dean almost dropped his coffee when he heard the scream, ran and tripped twice on the stairs by the time he reached the room.

What he saw made him still on the doorway.

Sam was standing in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, bare back scarred with wounds and memories that Dean tried to push out of his head, something he had tried to do again and again and again, day and night. And fuck, he hadn't even considered what it would do to Sam to find all those scars on his body (he was just so relieved and exhausted), and he hadn't considered why Lucifer didn't clean those scars up because if he was powerful enough to fix all that damage, then he had to be powerful enough to wipe away the remnants of it too. The best answer he could come up with to that was,  _Satan's still Satan, even if he just brought your brother back from the dead_. Dean was well-aware that Lucifer didn't do this out of the goodness of his heart, that he needed Sam to be at his one-hundred percent if he could consent to being taken as a meat suit.

"Sammy…" Dean breathed. Sam stared at himself, his eyes wide and his chin quivering. Dean stepped forward, hand reaching out.

"What did they do to me?" Sam whimpered, his entire body beginning to shake. Dean knew he was about to fall, seeing his knees tremble.

And when he did, Dean jolted forward, caught him by his middle as he screamed at his own reflection, " _WHAT DID THEY DO?!_ "

And all he could do was hold him against his chest when he collapsed into sobs, twist him around and grip the back of his neck, his face pressed into his hair as he rocked them back and forth like they were children again after a terrible nightmare, because he didn't know what else to do. He didn't know if there  _was_  anything else to do. He couldn't hunt it down and kill it, or beat the shit out of it for hurting his brother, because now the pain was inside of Sammy. But he made these same scars on one of the bastards who did this to him, and though it wasn't enough, maybe it was still something.

Dean released a shaky breath. "They hurt you, Sammy," he murmured into his hair, tears held back in his eyes and a quiver in his voice. "They hurt you bad, and I couldn't protect you. They hurt you in front of  _me_. And then Cas... Cas showed me more of what they did, and you weren't okay. You weren't the s-same."

"They broke me?" Sam asked, trembling. He sounded ashamed. "They... they..."

"You don't know what they did. You don't… but I do," Dean said roughly, slightly choked, and his arm tightened around Sam until his spine was bent in. He promised himself that it would stay that way, that Sam would never know everything they did to him. Maybe Sam deserved to know the truth, and it wasn't right to hide it from him, but it also seemed pointless and wrong to tell him something that would do no good to him except haunt him for the rest of his life. Dean was going to have to live with the knowledge of it every day, and that alone was the hardest thing. To tell it all to his little brother who directly suffered from it, the one he was supposed to protect and take care of, didn't seem like a noble thing to do either. "No way you could have been fine after it."

"This… this is this going to s-stay forever…" Sam whispered shakily, and Dean's shirt grew warmer and wetter. Dean suddenly became aware of the smooth, warped skin he could feel and see as he held him close, some of them jagged and twisted and indescribably-shaped from tools he didn't want to know of, some sickeningly disfiguring burns, long whip lashes and clean slashes and some curved into horrible, horrible words, and not for the first time, felt like throwing up. After that, he kept his eyes firmly up.

"And – and the words…" Sam gasped out in a hard, tremulous sob. "S-so now what? Every time I look in the mirror, I'm g-going to be reminded of – of everything I am?"

Dean's eyes widened, blood freezing cold at the words. Did Sam actually… he knew the extent of his guilt, but to believe that he deserved these words? That they defined him? "No." He shook his head, his eyes large in horror and brows furrowed as he tried to push him back and look at him, still shaking his head hard. "No. God, fuck, no. Don't you dare say that. You are not any of those things, you hear me?"

Sam sobbed, head bowed down, fingers clutching tightly into his shirt.

"They're dead now, Sammy, for what it's worth," Dean mumbled, stroking his hair back and wiping his cheeks with the heels of his hands, hoping to give him some sense of closure and safety. He tried to shove down the lid on his upcoming rage, seeing them make Sam hurt like this, being the reason for those tears and those devastating sounds coming from him. He wished he could bring them all back and mutilate them. Every one of them. "They're dead now."

Sam swallowed, closed his eyes and nodded, his face flushed, brows pinched.

And then, he opened his eyes, still wet and huge.

"Did... did I die too?" he asked quietly.

Dean fell mute at that, images flashing through his head. Blood and bloody hands and soft whispers and quiet, off-tune humming scraping at his throat. The pain shredding his insides apart as he waited for what would happen to happen, the intervals between one breath and the next growing until the next one never came and the slowing of a beating against his fingers until it was no more.

"Yeah, you did, Sammy," Dean murmured, pulling him in again and burying his nose into his hair.

Sam didn't say anything for a long time. Dean didn't expect him to ask how he came back, because he knew he was smart and could put two and two together.

But he didn't expect him to ask this either.

"I'm not the only one they broke, did they?"

And wasn't that the truth that he didn't think he deserved to admit? Because he wasn't the one they tortured (except maybe, in a way, they did. Because Sam was his, his flesh and blood and heart and soul, and they wrecked all of it apart). He wasn't the one they crossed all the lines with. He wasn't the one with all the memories carved into his skin.

But it was no lie that, in watching Sammy, his brother and his world, fallen to pieces - that somewhere along the way, he did too.

_No, Sammy. You weren't,_ Dean answered silently, and just felt the life in the heart rapidly beating against his arm, Sam's back pushing and pulling against it with breaths going in and out of his lungs. And then thought that maybe  _this_ , this was all he needed to heal.

 

 

**FIN**


End file.
